...that you might be on the highway, chatting on your cell phone to your friend, ignoring your three-year-old, who is pretending to talk to Iron Man on his "ipod," when all of a sudden --
"I gotta POO!"
Click. "Wh-what? WHAT? Poo? Really? Now?!"
"Uh-huh."
"Oh, um, can you hold it until we get home, or should I um, pull over or something?"
"Pull over or something."
Uh. Huh. Get off the highway at the next exit. Think fast. There are no restaurants easily available nearby. There is a city park that we take hikes in sometimes. Drive to the park, which has random cars driving in and out of the parking lot. How am I gonna do this? Take him out of the car and put him on the side with a teeny bit of privacy. I should clarify that I could see no public washroom anywhere.
Oh dear, people are going to think I'm molesting him or something. I must look creepy too. Who goes to a forested area mid-winter with no dog? Rapists? Drug dealers? Married men having illicit sex with hookers or gay men?
Oh man, the thought of dogs reminded me -- I can't just let him poop on the snow. I rummage through the car and sacrifice and H&M bag full of 4 fabulous spring finds (and one super cheap and cute clutch from Old Navy.) Toss the new lovelies into another bag carrying childhood mementos that my mom is forcing me to clear out of her home.
Pull down Nate's pants and undies. Place the H&M bag in a diaperish fashion between his legs. "You'll have to poo standing up," I say. "What are we doing here?" he has the nerve to ask. Great question son. "POO already!" He makes some scrunchy faces and grunty sounds. I look him in the eye.
"You don't have to poo anymore, do you?"
"Uh, no."
Great. We drive home in silence.
Potty training means hours later I find myself holding a bowl of chopped up fruit in one hand, the potty in the other, calling after my son with my own pants around my ankles.
How did I end up here again? I wanted this, right?
Monday, March 31, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Scarborough Sunday: These were the people in my neighbourhood
A few weeks ago I described the townhouse complex I lived in until I was about 8. This was where I first learned right from wrong. Where I learned about different cultures. Where I learned how cruel children could be.
If you took the one row that I lived on, Brookmill Blvd could have been the UN. Starting at the Ali's, who represented Pakistan. Next door to the Ali's lived a boy named Oran (of course we called him Oran Juice! Even before Word Up!) who was of Caribbean decent. (My fuzzy memory says Trinidad.) Next to Oran was an Indian family, the Patels I think. Their child was too young to play with the rest of us, but we always approached the mom as she sat in her front door. She was always wearing leather sandals, regardless of the weather and had rings on her toes, as though from a storybook.
Then came the Cassars. The father was Maltese and the mom, a red-headed Canadian. She was the sweetest loveliest woman and we all spent the most time in their house. Their two blonde daughters, Diane and Christina, were the rarity in the neighbourhood. That's the thing about growing up in Scarborough -- the blonde girls were always the ones we all were drawn to, no matter how pretty, or nice, or smart.
When their dad would park his car after work, they would always run to him and ask him what he had. He would pretend he had nothing, yet always had candy in his pockets for them. I envied the way their dad would greet them, enthusiastically, like he wanted to see them.
Next to them were the Chinese-Jamaican Chinns, with their two daughters, Lori and Kelly. They taught me how to play Mahjong and the parents always listened to country music. Like the Statland Brothers. Real country music. If we played hide and seek in their basement on rainy days, we were always afraid because they told us there were bees in their closets.
Lori and Kelly were allowed to paint their toes with Strawberry Shortcake nail polish. My sister and I were not. Sometimes I would lie and convince their mom that I was allowed to paint mine too, only to go home and get in shit. If we heard the Dickie Dee guy coming with ice-cream bars, I would beg their mom to buy me one, because my mom never would. I think she got sick of it and after a while she started to turn me down. In hindsight, their mom hated my mom. They were as different as it gets.
Next to them lived a young white couple who had a baby. "What did you name your baby?" the seven-year-old me inquired. Stephanie they told me. "Oh, that was the name of my goldfish," I said, "But it died." Then Lori gave me crap saying I should never have mentioned my dead fish to the parents of a new baby.
Next to the white yuppies lived us. Next to us lived a Filipino family with at least two kids, who were too old to play with us. They had a bed of perennials around the perimeter of their front garden and I remember the older boy would catch bees in his hand, pull their wings off and then place them gingerly on his mother's flower beds as a decoration. Freak.
I can't recall who lived next to them. Whomever they were, they didn't really socialize with us, or I'd have a memory of them. Some immigrants chose to keep to themselves. It's a fear thing left from their home countries. Fear of the other. Fear that this house that they are barely able to afford monthly payments on may be taken away when some fascist military regime takes power.
And in the last house on the row lived my best friend, Cameron, whose mother was Australian and whose dad was as Canadian as they get.
There were others around the way. The Portuguese deaf girl who lived on a row perpendicular to ours. The young Jamaican girl who lived across the street and whose birthday party I once attended where we sang "This Little Light of Mine" and where my sister and I were the only pale faces.
There were Winnie and Winston, (Chinese or Korean) whom I liked but they lived too far to be part of our daily interactions. Their backyard faced the playground and you couldn't see it from my house. Miles away in a child's eyes. There was a white girl named Colleen whose birthday I also attended. She got one of those spiral doodle thingies that I would see on TV as a gift and also those fashion plates that you would rub your pencil crayon over to make the print.
There were Pinky and Pretty, the friendly South Asian sisters. I remember one of them showing me the larvae of some bug under her skin. She had to wait for them to hatch and come out on their own, she told me. I thought it was so cool, even if it was a bit gross. When I told my mom this she said they were dirty and I was not to play with them anymore.
There were the Davises with their two kids who looked like Charlie Brown and Sally. They smoked like mad and had a cottage. They still live in the complex, to the best of my knowledge, as do the Cassars, though their mother tragically passed when we were in high school.
This was a magical place for a child to grow up. A place where front doors were always open, where all of us played on the same sidewalk in front of our houses everyday without fear. Moms were always home and we flitted in and out of living rooms and basements with ease, only entering our own homes when our mothers called from the front doors or when the street lights came on.
I think we took it all for granted. There will never be another generation like that. All those children, playing safely and happily together, OUTSIDE, ignoring differences and finding common ground in sidewalk chalk (a.k.a. those white rocks that somehow allowed you to write on concrete) and cheap plastic hula hoops. The houses there would be considered ghetto now, but to us children they were rich with possibility and endless, innocent play.
If you took the one row that I lived on, Brookmill Blvd could have been the UN. Starting at the Ali's, who represented Pakistan. Next door to the Ali's lived a boy named Oran (of course we called him Oran Juice! Even before Word Up!) who was of Caribbean decent. (My fuzzy memory says Trinidad.) Next to Oran was an Indian family, the Patels I think. Their child was too young to play with the rest of us, but we always approached the mom as she sat in her front door. She was always wearing leather sandals, regardless of the weather and had rings on her toes, as though from a storybook.
Then came the Cassars. The father was Maltese and the mom, a red-headed Canadian. She was the sweetest loveliest woman and we all spent the most time in their house. Their two blonde daughters, Diane and Christina, were the rarity in the neighbourhood. That's the thing about growing up in Scarborough -- the blonde girls were always the ones we all were drawn to, no matter how pretty, or nice, or smart.
When their dad would park his car after work, they would always run to him and ask him what he had. He would pretend he had nothing, yet always had candy in his pockets for them. I envied the way their dad would greet them, enthusiastically, like he wanted to see them.
Next to them were the Chinese-Jamaican Chinns, with their two daughters, Lori and Kelly. They taught me how to play Mahjong and the parents always listened to country music. Like the Statland Brothers. Real country music. If we played hide and seek in their basement on rainy days, we were always afraid because they told us there were bees in their closets.
Lori and Kelly were allowed to paint their toes with Strawberry Shortcake nail polish. My sister and I were not. Sometimes I would lie and convince their mom that I was allowed to paint mine too, only to go home and get in shit. If we heard the Dickie Dee guy coming with ice-cream bars, I would beg their mom to buy me one, because my mom never would. I think she got sick of it and after a while she started to turn me down. In hindsight, their mom hated my mom. They were as different as it gets.
Next to them lived a young white couple who had a baby. "What did you name your baby?" the seven-year-old me inquired. Stephanie they told me. "Oh, that was the name of my goldfish," I said, "But it died." Then Lori gave me crap saying I should never have mentioned my dead fish to the parents of a new baby.
Next to the white yuppies lived us. Next to us lived a Filipino family with at least two kids, who were too old to play with us. They had a bed of perennials around the perimeter of their front garden and I remember the older boy would catch bees in his hand, pull their wings off and then place them gingerly on his mother's flower beds as a decoration. Freak.
I can't recall who lived next to them. Whomever they were, they didn't really socialize with us, or I'd have a memory of them. Some immigrants chose to keep to themselves. It's a fear thing left from their home countries. Fear of the other. Fear that this house that they are barely able to afford monthly payments on may be taken away when some fascist military regime takes power.
And in the last house on the row lived my best friend, Cameron, whose mother was Australian and whose dad was as Canadian as they get.
There were others around the way. The Portuguese deaf girl who lived on a row perpendicular to ours. The young Jamaican girl who lived across the street and whose birthday party I once attended where we sang "This Little Light of Mine" and where my sister and I were the only pale faces.
There were Winnie and Winston, (Chinese or Korean) whom I liked but they lived too far to be part of our daily interactions. Their backyard faced the playground and you couldn't see it from my house. Miles away in a child's eyes. There was a white girl named Colleen whose birthday I also attended. She got one of those spiral doodle thingies that I would see on TV as a gift and also those fashion plates that you would rub your pencil crayon over to make the print.
There were Pinky and Pretty, the friendly South Asian sisters. I remember one of them showing me the larvae of some bug under her skin. She had to wait for them to hatch and come out on their own, she told me. I thought it was so cool, even if it was a bit gross. When I told my mom this she said they were dirty and I was not to play with them anymore.
There were the Davises with their two kids who looked like Charlie Brown and Sally. They smoked like mad and had a cottage. They still live in the complex, to the best of my knowledge, as do the Cassars, though their mother tragically passed when we were in high school.
This was a magical place for a child to grow up. A place where front doors were always open, where all of us played on the same sidewalk in front of our houses everyday without fear. Moms were always home and we flitted in and out of living rooms and basements with ease, only entering our own homes when our mothers called from the front doors or when the street lights came on.
I think we took it all for granted. There will never be another generation like that. All those children, playing safely and happily together, OUTSIDE, ignoring differences and finding common ground in sidewalk chalk (a.k.a. those white rocks that somehow allowed you to write on concrete) and cheap plastic hula hoops. The houses there would be considered ghetto now, but to us children they were rich with possibility and endless, innocent play.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Hysterical much?
So um... (shuffles feet, looks down at the ground and winces) I was a bit over the top yesterday. Sleep deprivation will do that to you. I am on three nights of not sleeping, but my head is clearer today.
I've received some good comments and a few solid emails about vaccination that calmed me down quite a bit. I think it's likely that the crazies are coming back and I had a rather serious panic attack, thinking the vaccination really damaged my daughter.
By mid-afternoon yesterday, Lucine seemed a little more normal. She was still mighty congested, but the colour had come back to her cheeks and she was smiling her face off. I decided to take her to the homeopath for a proper diagnosis.
My homey is pretty anti-vaccination. I was fully expecting her to tear a strip off me for going ahead with the shots. But all she did was sigh and make me promise I wouldn't give the MMR. Then she asked us a trillion questions, took a good look at Lucy and then gave her diagnosis. Lucy is teething. Big time.
Boy do I feel like an idiot. Here I am thinking I've marred my daughter for life and the root of her restlessness was a cold due to teeth. I'm sure the vaccination didn't help. But it was the combination of these factors that put stress on her immune system. Sheesh!
Anyway, in my research (and you know I Dr. Google things to death) I came across a book by Dr. Sears called, of all things, The Vaccine Book. In it he describes the reasoning behind vaccinations and offers an alternate vaccine schedule, one that delays certain shots and spaces out others.
Here's what I found on a message board about the book. (will post more after I get my hands on the book.) Keep in mind that this info is American and might not apply completely to Canadians, as Kittenpie pointed out to me. (Hey Ann Douglas! How about a Canadian vaccine solution guide?)
(This was written by a mom who attended a workshop on The Alternative Vaccine Schedule)
His proposed selective schedule is as follows-
2 mo DTaP, Prevnar
4 mo DTaP, Hib
6 mo Hib, Prevnar
9 mo DTaP, Prevnar
12 mo Hib
15 mo Hib, Prevnar
5 years Tetanus booster
He recommended giving them only 1 or 2 at a time to decrease the chances of side effects, and talked about the use of Vitamins A and C prior to and after the shots to help decrease the chances of a reaction.
He considered Meningitis and Pertussis to be the most possible and most serious for infants.
He considered Meningitis possible AND serious for toddlers, but rare beyond age 2.
He considered polio, hep b, diphtheria, and tetanus as diseases that are very serious, but that your young child would NOT catch them.
He considered Measles, Mumps and Rubella as rare and not serious for infants and toddlers.
He considered chickenpox to be common and not serious.
He said that if you plan to travel outside the US, that the following shots were important,
Polio- Africa and Asia
Tetanus- wounds more likely on vacation, and less access to a shot while traveling
Hib
Diptheria- check with CDC
He said to consider the following shots for your teens-
Hep B
Chicken pox
Rubella- important for women of child bearing age
Tetanus- boosters every 10 years
He said to ask for blood tests to see if the teen had developed natural immunity already to Measles, Mumps, Rubella, and Chicken Pox.
His nutshells
Hib, rare but serious meningitis. safe ingredients, side effects minimal, no mercury, rated 4/5 score , recommended
DTaP, pertussis serious under age 1, side effects minimal, beef extract the only worry, tripedia vaccine is low mercury in single vial dose (less than .3 micrograms). Most cases of pertussis are unvaccinated. recommended for pertussis, 4/5 score recommended
Prevnar, common and serious meningitis, safe ingredients, more chance of side effects, 4/5 score recommended
MMR, disease usually mild in kids, fairly rare, side effects and ingredients considerable, 50 cases of Measles per year in CA, rubella shot can cause arthritis in women, this shot has the most serious side effect profile. 1/5 score
Heb B, STD, rare in kids, but serious if caught, side effects considerable, ingredients safe, does contain residual formyldehyde, kids 2/5 score, teens, 3/5 score
Chicken pox, disease mild but common, side effects and ingredients considerable, used to have 55 deaths per year, disease waning, kids 2/5 score, 3/5 score for teens
Polio, diseases not in Western Hemisphere, side effects safe, but ingredients questionable, 2/5 score
Of all of these, the serious concerns to public health risk if most decided not to vaccinate, would be Diptheria, Pertussis, and Hib. Obviously Diptheria is not a problem currently, but we would see cases of Pertussis and Hib meningitis increase rapidly if we saw a sudden drop of vaccinations against these diseases.
So, if you're iffy about vaccines, but don't want to go completely without, you may want to consider this option and discuss the alternate schedule with your healthcare provider. Kittenpie also pointed out that mercury and thimerosal (a mercury compound) is no longer used as a preservative for vaccines in Canada. I checked with the Health Canada site and the Hep B shot is the only one that still has thimerosal, but a mercury-free vaccine is also available.
All in all, it's up to you to do the research and make an informed decision. I was a bit uppity yesterday. I think that we will still consider some vaccines, but won't be doing ones like MMR, flu shots and varicella/chicken pox. (Though, if Lucy doesn't contract chicken pox in childhood, I might consider the vaccine when she's older to avoid serious complications from chicken pox.)
I may come to eat my words about all this. It would only take one trip to the hospital with a sick child to change my mind, I'm sure. But for the time being, this is where I stand. Blogging is about sharing information and empowering others. If you were feeling the same way about vaccines, but too afraid to express them, maybe my talking about it will help you to know there are others out there with apprehensions.
(Here's a quick link to the Ontario vaccination schedule for those of you reading who live in my fair province.)
I've received some good comments and a few solid emails about vaccination that calmed me down quite a bit. I think it's likely that the crazies are coming back and I had a rather serious panic attack, thinking the vaccination really damaged my daughter.
By mid-afternoon yesterday, Lucine seemed a little more normal. She was still mighty congested, but the colour had come back to her cheeks and she was smiling her face off. I decided to take her to the homeopath for a proper diagnosis.
My homey is pretty anti-vaccination. I was fully expecting her to tear a strip off me for going ahead with the shots. But all she did was sigh and make me promise I wouldn't give the MMR. Then she asked us a trillion questions, took a good look at Lucy and then gave her diagnosis. Lucy is teething. Big time.
Boy do I feel like an idiot. Here I am thinking I've marred my daughter for life and the root of her restlessness was a cold due to teeth. I'm sure the vaccination didn't help. But it was the combination of these factors that put stress on her immune system. Sheesh!
Anyway, in my research (and you know I Dr. Google things to death) I came across a book by Dr. Sears called, of all things, The Vaccine Book. In it he describes the reasoning behind vaccinations and offers an alternate vaccine schedule, one that delays certain shots and spaces out others.
Here's what I found on a message board about the book. (will post more after I get my hands on the book.) Keep in mind that this info is American and might not apply completely to Canadians, as Kittenpie pointed out to me. (Hey Ann Douglas! How about a Canadian vaccine solution guide?)
(This was written by a mom who attended a workshop on The Alternative Vaccine Schedule)
His proposed selective schedule is as follows-
2 mo DTaP, Prevnar
4 mo DTaP, Hib
6 mo Hib, Prevnar
9 mo DTaP, Prevnar
12 mo Hib
15 mo Hib, Prevnar
5 years Tetanus booster
He recommended giving them only 1 or 2 at a time to decrease the chances of side effects, and talked about the use of Vitamins A and C prior to and after the shots to help decrease the chances of a reaction.
He considered Meningitis and Pertussis to be the most possible and most serious for infants.
He considered Meningitis possible AND serious for toddlers, but rare beyond age 2.
He considered polio, hep b, diphtheria, and tetanus as diseases that are very serious, but that your young child would NOT catch them.
He considered Measles, Mumps and Rubella as rare and not serious for infants and toddlers.
He considered chickenpox to be common and not serious.
He said that if you plan to travel outside the US, that the following shots were important,
Polio- Africa and Asia
Tetanus- wounds more likely on vacation, and less access to a shot while traveling
Hib
Diptheria- check with CDC
He said to consider the following shots for your teens-
Hep B
Chicken pox
Rubella- important for women of child bearing age
Tetanus- boosters every 10 years
He said to ask for blood tests to see if the teen had developed natural immunity already to Measles, Mumps, Rubella, and Chicken Pox.
His nutshells
Hib, rare but serious meningitis. safe ingredients, side effects minimal, no mercury, rated 4/5 score , recommended
DTaP, pertussis serious under age 1, side effects minimal, beef extract the only worry, tripedia vaccine is low mercury in single vial dose (less than .3 micrograms). Most cases of pertussis are unvaccinated. recommended for pertussis, 4/5 score recommended
Prevnar, common and serious meningitis, safe ingredients, more chance of side effects, 4/5 score recommended
MMR, disease usually mild in kids, fairly rare, side effects and ingredients considerable, 50 cases of Measles per year in CA, rubella shot can cause arthritis in women, this shot has the most serious side effect profile. 1/5 score
Heb B, STD, rare in kids, but serious if caught, side effects considerable, ingredients safe, does contain residual formyldehyde, kids 2/5 score, teens, 3/5 score
Chicken pox, disease mild but common, side effects and ingredients considerable, used to have 55 deaths per year, disease waning, kids 2/5 score, 3/5 score for teens
Polio, diseases not in Western Hemisphere, side effects safe, but ingredients questionable, 2/5 score
Of all of these, the serious concerns to public health risk if most decided not to vaccinate, would be Diptheria, Pertussis, and Hib. Obviously Diptheria is not a problem currently, but we would see cases of Pertussis and Hib meningitis increase rapidly if we saw a sudden drop of vaccinations against these diseases.
So, if you're iffy about vaccines, but don't want to go completely without, you may want to consider this option and discuss the alternate schedule with your healthcare provider. Kittenpie also pointed out that mercury and thimerosal (a mercury compound) is no longer used as a preservative for vaccines in Canada. I checked with the Health Canada site and the Hep B shot is the only one that still has thimerosal, but a mercury-free vaccine is also available.
All in all, it's up to you to do the research and make an informed decision. I was a bit uppity yesterday. I think that we will still consider some vaccines, but won't be doing ones like MMR, flu shots and varicella/chicken pox. (Though, if Lucy doesn't contract chicken pox in childhood, I might consider the vaccine when she's older to avoid serious complications from chicken pox.)
I may come to eat my words about all this. It would only take one trip to the hospital with a sick child to change my mind, I'm sure. But for the time being, this is where I stand. Blogging is about sharing information and empowering others. If you were feeling the same way about vaccines, but too afraid to express them, maybe my talking about it will help you to know there are others out there with apprehensions.
(Here's a quick link to the Ontario vaccination schedule for those of you reading who live in my fair province.)
Thursday, March 27, 2008
The Great Vaccinate Debate
If you read me often, you know I'm often sitting on the fence. On just about everything. In fact, the only thing I've ever made a quick and firm decision on was my husband.
My waffling frustrates my poor husband to no end. "Just make a decision! Just do it! Make it and stick with it and don't keep going back and forth and making me nuts!"
It's not that I don't want to make a decision, I just really, REALLY want to make the RIGHT one. But in not making a commitment to a plan, I end up making bigger mistakes than if I had just gone with my first choice. And I often end up disappointing others.
The thing that has been keeping me up the past 5 months is vaccination. I know it's all the rage now to blame vaccinations for your kid's problems, but my indecision is not based on any of this. With my first-born, we vaccinated without giving it a second thought. (Well I may have had a tad of apprehension, but there was never any information that suggested differently.) Nate has been through so much in the NICU and taking narcotics to keep his seizures at bay -- one more medical intervention didn't seem harmful. After all, he was so strong to beat that stroke, what was there that he couldn't beat?
With Lucy the game is different. She went from being a regular poop machine, to being a constipated mess after her two month shots. She got her first cold after her two month shots. All these weird "coincidences" didn't seem normal to me, since I was breastfeeding. Wasn't her immunity supposed to be better because of boob milk? Wasn't she supposed to breastmilk poop through her clothes the way her brother did?
After that first shot, she didn't poo regularly until she started solids. That first bit of fibre had her cleaned out -- 5 poops in one day. But even now, we often have to hold her legs up into her chest to help her get the poop out. It makes me sad.
So you would think that I would have had the sense to skip the 4-month shots. Nope. I did delay it somewhat, but I didn't skip it. I researched until I was blue in the face. All I found were MMR=autism sites or pro-vaccination information. I got the feeling that vaccination was one of those "damned if you do, damned if you don't" scenarios.
Did I want to expose my daughter to something that was potentially making her ill? No. Yet, on the other hand, the options of not vaccinating are often (threats) of death. "If you don't give Hib, your child could DIE of meningitis" or "If you don't give Prevnar, your baby could DIE of pneumonia!" Who wants that on their hands?
So we made it to month 7 without going in for vaccinations. The Dog and I talked at great length as to whether or not to continue. Diphtheria, Polio and Tetanus are not illnesses I'd like my child to have, or any child for that matter, so I was for vaccinating her in an effort to eradicate these illnesses. (Well, Tetanus is not a person to person illness, but causes lockjaw. So that one I sort of get.)
The problem is that the vaccines are not really available separately. So you go to the doctor and have to vaccinate against whooping cough (Pertussis) too. And now, you also have to get the Hib (Haemophillus Influenza?) -- the one that causes meningitis. But also, there's another form of meningitis that it doesn't cover, so they want you to take a different vaccine for that too.
OMG! It's all so overwhelming! So when I finally took Lucy to get weighed and measured Tuesday (16 lbs, 25.5 inches) I had a discussion with the doctor. He is old school, so I guess we should have known better. I said no to only the Prevnar. I should have said no to all of them. I am wracked with guilt.
I told him that Lucy had been ill. He took her temperature and a good look and determined her to be well enough to get the vaccines. I forgot to mention that Nate had started with a cough and a runny nose Monday. I should have said no. I should have said NO!
I thought she could handle it, and now I'm afraid of what I've done. She was extremely restless the rest of the day. She woke up every two hours at night and by dawn she was completely ill. Last night she could not even breathe, she was so congested. She spent the night attached to my boob to get the bit of rest she could. I was breastfeeding on and off for 7 hours.
My doc's office passes it off as a bug she picked up. Sure. Perhaps I'm making a big deal. But my gut tells me I'm not. I made a decision from a place of fear. One should never do that. I didn't listen to my gut. And now I have no idea what I may have done to her health for the rest of her life.
Ever wonder why so many more children have anaphylactic allergies now? Peanut allergies that we certainly never knew growing up? Skyrocketting asthma rates? Coincidentally, the pertussis vaccine wasn't given with these other vaccines until the 90s. With the promise of one less illness, we opted for a shot. Just go read up at the Vaccine Risk Awareness Network -- you won't think the rare chance of contracting whooping cough seems as bad as the potential side effects from the shot.
In 1983 the number of vaccines given were 10. Now a child receives 36. THIRTY SIX vaccines that were never really tested in combination form. The website Generation Rescue gives loads of great information on all that traditional media and the medical community are not telling us.
A child would never really come in contact with all the bacteria they get in the combination of shots now given at 2, 4, and 6 months, at the same time. We don't give them more than one food at a time when they are starting out, yet we give them 6 vaccines in a day. Those vaccines have all kinds of additives in them, like aluminum. Babies used to have maternal immunity to these illnesses in the first year. Now, because we've all been vaccinated too, babies are not covered by their mother's immunity. Hence the schwak of early shots.
We tell ourselves, "If vaccines were really bad, they would tell us. They wouldn't give them." Maybe. But they are not testing them adequately before they put them out. If they were, they wouldn't suddenly discontinue/recall Mengigate or change the DTP vaccine formulation to be DTAP. Clearly they are finding things wrong and having to make amendments. I shudder to think of the reprocussions of all these young girls getting the HPV vaccine that's only been tested for 5 years or so.
If they work, why the outbreaks? Why the need for random booster shots? We don't know what the potential side effects of these government imposed vaccination regimes are. For every study that says MMR causes autism, a drug company is quick to pay for research that says that's not true. They put fear in our hearts. Your baby could DIE if you don't vaccinate. No parent wants that on their head. No one is looking at our standard of living in the West. Clean water, sanitation, good food, antibiotics (Not that I'm a fan of antibiotics either...) -- the chances of a child dying from these illnesses is severely diminished. I'm not saying it doesn't happen, but the odds are slim.
What is more likely to happen is that these bacteria will mutate, becoming super bugs. We saw it last year in Toronto when a child developed super-meningitis that was resistant to any treatment. They hushed the story up fast to avoid mass panic. The same sub-strain of Streptococcus pneumoniae 19A is causing drug-resistant ear infections. Interesting isn't it. What's that vaccine all the babies are getting these days to prevent ear infections? Prevnar?
Do I sound crazy? Sure. I was up all night researching things that I somehow never came across in past searches when making the decision to vaccinate. But I think Jenny McCarthy said it best on The Hour last week. During her "20 in 2" Q&A segment, she said something to the effect of, "Sometimes it takes a little crazy to get the job done."
Last year, I suffered a week of hell with Nate when he got the cold sore/herpes virus. There just happened to be nothing the medical community could do to help, so we got by thanks to my homeopath. Are we vaccinating our kids against chicken pox to avoid a week of hell? In return, what can of worms are we opening up. When we vaccinate, we interfere with the brain's natural way to boost immunity. That's why we are seeing a rise in neuro-immune issues like autism. That's why we are seeing a rise in dangerous allergies -- our antibodies attacking us incorrectly. It's all so clear to me now.
I am no longer vaccinating my children. I wish I'd made a firm decision about this before we went to the doctor Tuesday. I am making the decision in stone right now. I urge all of you to really do the research before you allow a doctor to stick a needle in your baby's chubby thigh.
Sorry, no post-Model wrap up. Couldn't get into it with Lucy only able to sleep on my shoulder and Nate refusing to go to sleep.
My waffling frustrates my poor husband to no end. "Just make a decision! Just do it! Make it and stick with it and don't keep going back and forth and making me nuts!"
It's not that I don't want to make a decision, I just really, REALLY want to make the RIGHT one. But in not making a commitment to a plan, I end up making bigger mistakes than if I had just gone with my first choice. And I often end up disappointing others.
The thing that has been keeping me up the past 5 months is vaccination. I know it's all the rage now to blame vaccinations for your kid's problems, but my indecision is not based on any of this. With my first-born, we vaccinated without giving it a second thought. (Well I may have had a tad of apprehension, but there was never any information that suggested differently.) Nate has been through so much in the NICU and taking narcotics to keep his seizures at bay -- one more medical intervention didn't seem harmful. After all, he was so strong to beat that stroke, what was there that he couldn't beat?
With Lucy the game is different. She went from being a regular poop machine, to being a constipated mess after her two month shots. She got her first cold after her two month shots. All these weird "coincidences" didn't seem normal to me, since I was breastfeeding. Wasn't her immunity supposed to be better because of boob milk? Wasn't she supposed to breastmilk poop through her clothes the way her brother did?
After that first shot, she didn't poo regularly until she started solids. That first bit of fibre had her cleaned out -- 5 poops in one day. But even now, we often have to hold her legs up into her chest to help her get the poop out. It makes me sad.
So you would think that I would have had the sense to skip the 4-month shots. Nope. I did delay it somewhat, but I didn't skip it. I researched until I was blue in the face. All I found were MMR=autism sites or pro-vaccination information. I got the feeling that vaccination was one of those "damned if you do, damned if you don't" scenarios.
Did I want to expose my daughter to something that was potentially making her ill? No. Yet, on the other hand, the options of not vaccinating are often (threats) of death. "If you don't give Hib, your child could DIE of meningitis" or "If you don't give Prevnar, your baby could DIE of pneumonia!" Who wants that on their hands?
So we made it to month 7 without going in for vaccinations. The Dog and I talked at great length as to whether or not to continue. Diphtheria, Polio and Tetanus are not illnesses I'd like my child to have, or any child for that matter, so I was for vaccinating her in an effort to eradicate these illnesses. (Well, Tetanus is not a person to person illness, but causes lockjaw. So that one I sort of get.)
The problem is that the vaccines are not really available separately. So you go to the doctor and have to vaccinate against whooping cough (Pertussis) too. And now, you also have to get the Hib (Haemophillus Influenza?) -- the one that causes meningitis. But also, there's another form of meningitis that it doesn't cover, so they want you to take a different vaccine for that too.
OMG! It's all so overwhelming! So when I finally took Lucy to get weighed and measured Tuesday (16 lbs, 25.5 inches) I had a discussion with the doctor. He is old school, so I guess we should have known better. I said no to only the Prevnar. I should have said no to all of them. I am wracked with guilt.
I told him that Lucy had been ill. He took her temperature and a good look and determined her to be well enough to get the vaccines. I forgot to mention that Nate had started with a cough and a runny nose Monday. I should have said no. I should have said NO!
I thought she could handle it, and now I'm afraid of what I've done. She was extremely restless the rest of the day. She woke up every two hours at night and by dawn she was completely ill. Last night she could not even breathe, she was so congested. She spent the night attached to my boob to get the bit of rest she could. I was breastfeeding on and off for 7 hours.
My doc's office passes it off as a bug she picked up. Sure. Perhaps I'm making a big deal. But my gut tells me I'm not. I made a decision from a place of fear. One should never do that. I didn't listen to my gut. And now I have no idea what I may have done to her health for the rest of her life.
Ever wonder why so many more children have anaphylactic allergies now? Peanut allergies that we certainly never knew growing up? Skyrocketting asthma rates? Coincidentally, the pertussis vaccine wasn't given with these other vaccines until the 90s. With the promise of one less illness, we opted for a shot. Just go read up at the Vaccine Risk Awareness Network -- you won't think the rare chance of contracting whooping cough seems as bad as the potential side effects from the shot.
In 1983 the number of vaccines given were 10. Now a child receives 36. THIRTY SIX vaccines that were never really tested in combination form. The website Generation Rescue gives loads of great information on all that traditional media and the medical community are not telling us.
A child would never really come in contact with all the bacteria they get in the combination of shots now given at 2, 4, and 6 months, at the same time. We don't give them more than one food at a time when they are starting out, yet we give them 6 vaccines in a day. Those vaccines have all kinds of additives in them, like aluminum. Babies used to have maternal immunity to these illnesses in the first year. Now, because we've all been vaccinated too, babies are not covered by their mother's immunity. Hence the schwak of early shots.
We tell ourselves, "If vaccines were really bad, they would tell us. They wouldn't give them." Maybe. But they are not testing them adequately before they put them out. If they were, they wouldn't suddenly discontinue/recall Mengigate or change the DTP vaccine formulation to be DTAP. Clearly they are finding things wrong and having to make amendments. I shudder to think of the reprocussions of all these young girls getting the HPV vaccine that's only been tested for 5 years or so.
If they work, why the outbreaks? Why the need for random booster shots? We don't know what the potential side effects of these government imposed vaccination regimes are. For every study that says MMR causes autism, a drug company is quick to pay for research that says that's not true. They put fear in our hearts. Your baby could DIE if you don't vaccinate. No parent wants that on their head. No one is looking at our standard of living in the West. Clean water, sanitation, good food, antibiotics (Not that I'm a fan of antibiotics either...) -- the chances of a child dying from these illnesses is severely diminished. I'm not saying it doesn't happen, but the odds are slim.
What is more likely to happen is that these bacteria will mutate, becoming super bugs. We saw it last year in Toronto when a child developed super-meningitis that was resistant to any treatment. They hushed the story up fast to avoid mass panic. The same sub-strain of Streptococcus pneumoniae 19A is causing drug-resistant ear infections. Interesting isn't it. What's that vaccine all the babies are getting these days to prevent ear infections? Prevnar?
Do I sound crazy? Sure. I was up all night researching things that I somehow never came across in past searches when making the decision to vaccinate. But I think Jenny McCarthy said it best on The Hour last week. During her "20 in 2" Q&A segment, she said something to the effect of, "Sometimes it takes a little crazy to get the job done."
Last year, I suffered a week of hell with Nate when he got the cold sore/herpes virus. There just happened to be nothing the medical community could do to help, so we got by thanks to my homeopath. Are we vaccinating our kids against chicken pox to avoid a week of hell? In return, what can of worms are we opening up. When we vaccinate, we interfere with the brain's natural way to boost immunity. That's why we are seeing a rise in neuro-immune issues like autism. That's why we are seeing a rise in dangerous allergies -- our antibodies attacking us incorrectly. It's all so clear to me now.
I am no longer vaccinating my children. I wish I'd made a firm decision about this before we went to the doctor Tuesday. I am making the decision in stone right now. I urge all of you to really do the research before you allow a doctor to stick a needle in your baby's chubby thigh.
Sorry, no post-Model wrap up. Couldn't get into it with Lucy only able to sleep on my shoulder and Nate refusing to go to sleep.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Scarborough Sunday: Easter Armo Style
Built like a Greek Theatre, our church (which stands in Scarborough and will probably the only remotely Scarberian aspect of this post) features a two-floor semi-circle, which opens up to face the altar. Armenian church is a lot like theatre, with beautiful operatic songs, priestly chants and monologues, and gold embroidered costumes. The congregation is equally theatrical. Dressed to the nines, ready to cry, to sing, to be saved, but also ready to judge. The biggest show of the year is undoubtedly Easter Sunday.
As I child, when the congregation was a fraction of what it is today, I looked forward to church service at Easter. Easter is the main event of the Christian faith, the thing that separates us from the rest of the monotheistic religions. It's a celebration. Christ gave his life for us. We get to live because he saved us. It's a nice thought, and one that I used to believe with a fervour I sometimes miss. Asking too many questions will ruin it, my mother used to caution the inquisitive me. Just believe and all will be fine. But I was never good at taking her advise.
Anyway, there are five parts to Armenian Church that I loved as a child.
Lighting a candle and praying when you walk in. There is something about those long skinny white candles that I have always found to be restorative. As a child, I would zone out on their warm glow, watching the wax melt and drip onto the sand in the candle box. I would try to block out the people around me and reflect on my loved ones, things I was thankful for and good things I wanted to happen. (Getting a job, or getting a boy I liked to like me back.) I still love staring at the very Orthodox painting over the shrine. I still love thinking my wishes will come true. It's like throwing a coin into a fountain I suppose. With better lighting.
The smell of incense. I remember sitting in the pews with my parents, feeling a combination of sleepy and bored. The incense dispenser (?) is brass and hangs on a long chain. It makes a gorgeous chainy clang as the deacon swings it methodically and sings his part of the corresponding chant. I would watch the smoke from the incense waft in the air in perfect curly-queues as the deacon made his way up and down the aisles. I was convinced that the smoke was a potion that made children sleepy. Little Nadine would try desperately to concentrate on something else while she held her breath to avoid the sleep-inducing smoke.
Now I can't get enough of it. I breathe it in deeply and hope that it cleanses every cell, every molecule, every DNA strand.
The song Der Voghormia. This gorgeous hymn is sung as you beg God's forgiveness. I remember bugging my mom to leave the mass so I could run around with my friends outside. She would always insist on staying for this song. I would see giant tears roll down, lips pursed, her face turning purple, hands clasped so tightly in prayer that her knuckles were white. "Why are you crying mom?" I hated seeing my mother cry. It frightened me. If she was so sad, what hope did I have? "I'm thinking of my mom and dad," she would burble. I now know that song means so much more. It is the song that unleashes The Sadness. I'm sure, many years from now, I will go to church seeking out that song so that I can think of my mother and cry.
Mas. As you leave the mass, you're haded a small plastic baggie with holy bread in it. There is a better explanation of mas, and the whole service, on Armeniapedia (the Armo Wiki!) here. As we always had to go on an empty stomach to receive communion, this small morsel of bread tasted like the best meal you've ever had to a breakfast-starved child. After a while, you're conditioned to crave the taste.
People watching/socializing. This is the thing that ultimately makes me not go to church. Yet, when I do go, I do it just like any good Armenian girl. I can't help myself. It's genetic! Just like the old theatres were the place for society to see and be seen, (think the second last scene in Dangerous Liaisons for example) well church is definitely like that too. We rush out after mass to see familiar faces, check out who is suddenly cute and potential marriage material, who is wearing what, etc. It's fun and it's horrendous at the same time.
I do love seeing the kids I grew up with. I love seeing the elderly family friends and showing them my babies. But inevitably in a small community, there is a ridiculous side. The fakeness, the showiness, the whispering. It's all too much and my mom cannot go and keep her mouth shut. Even during mass she has to point out who is there and comment on people. I love her, but she's an enabler. I'm trying not to live my life that way anymore, so I just avoid church rather than having to deal with it.
(Plus there are so many twice-a-year Christians on Easter that I don't think fire regulations are met and I get anxiety riddled thinking of all those people breathing in the same air.)
But really, like any ethnic group, a holiday isn't a holiday without the food. A big Easter meal at my aunt's house would feature no less than 15 appetizers. The problem with this style of Armo dim sum is that by the time the main course comes out, no one has room. These are special foods that often aren't eaten during the week, so the tendency is to stuff yourself to the point of discomfort so you can make it to the next holiday. You might gag at the thought of grape leaves stuffed with onions, but I go crazy if I don't eat these at least four times a year.
There is also choreg, a sweet bread that is similar to challa. When done right, it is so moist that and perfect that it could almost bring about world peace. When done wrong (usually because it was baked in an excited haste TWO WEEKS before Easter) it's dry and dense and devastating.
But, the most important aspect of Armenian Easter is the egg cracking game! We Armos are mighty competitive, and having the strongest egg is the cause for much celebration.
Here are three-minutes of egg-cracking, crazy-making fun at Lucy's first Easter. Added bonus: My mom trying to force feed Nate and then telling him she has to vacuum him. Funny! Hope your Easter was a good one!
As I child, when the congregation was a fraction of what it is today, I looked forward to church service at Easter. Easter is the main event of the Christian faith, the thing that separates us from the rest of the monotheistic religions. It's a celebration. Christ gave his life for us. We get to live because he saved us. It's a nice thought, and one that I used to believe with a fervour I sometimes miss. Asking too many questions will ruin it, my mother used to caution the inquisitive me. Just believe and all will be fine. But I was never good at taking her advise.
Anyway, there are five parts to Armenian Church that I loved as a child.
Lighting a candle and praying when you walk in. There is something about those long skinny white candles that I have always found to be restorative. As a child, I would zone out on their warm glow, watching the wax melt and drip onto the sand in the candle box. I would try to block out the people around me and reflect on my loved ones, things I was thankful for and good things I wanted to happen. (Getting a job, or getting a boy I liked to like me back.) I still love staring at the very Orthodox painting over the shrine. I still love thinking my wishes will come true. It's like throwing a coin into a fountain I suppose. With better lighting.
The smell of incense. I remember sitting in the pews with my parents, feeling a combination of sleepy and bored. The incense dispenser (?) is brass and hangs on a long chain. It makes a gorgeous chainy clang as the deacon swings it methodically and sings his part of the corresponding chant. I would watch the smoke from the incense waft in the air in perfect curly-queues as the deacon made his way up and down the aisles. I was convinced that the smoke was a potion that made children sleepy. Little Nadine would try desperately to concentrate on something else while she held her breath to avoid the sleep-inducing smoke.
Now I can't get enough of it. I breathe it in deeply and hope that it cleanses every cell, every molecule, every DNA strand.
The song Der Voghormia. This gorgeous hymn is sung as you beg God's forgiveness. I remember bugging my mom to leave the mass so I could run around with my friends outside. She would always insist on staying for this song. I would see giant tears roll down, lips pursed, her face turning purple, hands clasped so tightly in prayer that her knuckles were white. "Why are you crying mom?" I hated seeing my mother cry. It frightened me. If she was so sad, what hope did I have? "I'm thinking of my mom and dad," she would burble. I now know that song means so much more. It is the song that unleashes The Sadness. I'm sure, many years from now, I will go to church seeking out that song so that I can think of my mother and cry.
Mas. As you leave the mass, you're haded a small plastic baggie with holy bread in it. There is a better explanation of mas, and the whole service, on Armeniapedia (the Armo Wiki!) here. As we always had to go on an empty stomach to receive communion, this small morsel of bread tasted like the best meal you've ever had to a breakfast-starved child. After a while, you're conditioned to crave the taste.
People watching/socializing. This is the thing that ultimately makes me not go to church. Yet, when I do go, I do it just like any good Armenian girl. I can't help myself. It's genetic! Just like the old theatres were the place for society to see and be seen, (think the second last scene in Dangerous Liaisons for example) well church is definitely like that too. We rush out after mass to see familiar faces, check out who is suddenly cute and potential marriage material, who is wearing what, etc. It's fun and it's horrendous at the same time.
I do love seeing the kids I grew up with. I love seeing the elderly family friends and showing them my babies. But inevitably in a small community, there is a ridiculous side. The fakeness, the showiness, the whispering. It's all too much and my mom cannot go and keep her mouth shut. Even during mass she has to point out who is there and comment on people. I love her, but she's an enabler. I'm trying not to live my life that way anymore, so I just avoid church rather than having to deal with it.
(Plus there are so many twice-a-year Christians on Easter that I don't think fire regulations are met and I get anxiety riddled thinking of all those people breathing in the same air.)
But really, like any ethnic group, a holiday isn't a holiday without the food. A big Easter meal at my aunt's house would feature no less than 15 appetizers. The problem with this style of Armo dim sum is that by the time the main course comes out, no one has room. These are special foods that often aren't eaten during the week, so the tendency is to stuff yourself to the point of discomfort so you can make it to the next holiday. You might gag at the thought of grape leaves stuffed with onions, but I go crazy if I don't eat these at least four times a year.
There is also choreg, a sweet bread that is similar to challa. When done right, it is so moist that and perfect that it could almost bring about world peace. When done wrong (usually because it was baked in an excited haste TWO WEEKS before Easter) it's dry and dense and devastating.
But, the most important aspect of Armenian Easter is the egg cracking game! We Armos are mighty competitive, and having the strongest egg is the cause for much celebration.
Here are three-minutes of egg-cracking, crazy-making fun at Lucy's first Easter. Added bonus: My mom trying to force feed Nate and then telling him she has to vacuum him. Funny! Hope your Easter was a good one!
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Why my husband is a Dog
Today our quest to get Spring to hear our plea continued. The dudes played out in the backyard -- desperate to soak up that bit of sunshine, even with temps below freezing -- while I nursed Lucy indoors. From the window, I could see the Dog sidestep into view on the deck and try to get my attention.
He was smiling at me and Lucy together in a slightly creepy way. I started to act out in charades while mouthing, "You look like a psycho." When he finally got it (the key was my Hitchcock-esque stabbing movement) he laughed and hammed up the psycho some more.
Then he acted/mouthed, "I need to pee." I acted/mouthed, "So go ahead!" I pointed to the stairs to the bathroom.
Then he acted/mouthed what I interpreted as, "Is it OK if I leave Nate down there?"
"Of course it is. He'll be fine," I silently replied.
He smiled and then bounded down the deck stairs. To the yard.
I was instantly sure he would choose my lilac bush.
Trapped with baby on boob, I could not run after him to stop him from marking his territory in our yard.
He was smiling at me and Lucy together in a slightly creepy way. I started to act out in charades while mouthing, "You look like a psycho." When he finally got it (the key was my Hitchcock-esque stabbing movement) he laughed and hammed up the psycho some more.
Then he acted/mouthed, "I need to pee." I acted/mouthed, "So go ahead!" I pointed to the stairs to the bathroom.
Then he acted/mouthed what I interpreted as, "Is it OK if I leave Nate down there?"
"Of course it is. He'll be fine," I silently replied.
He smiled and then bounded down the deck stairs. To the yard.
I was instantly sure he would choose my lilac bush.
Trapped with baby on boob, I could not run after him to stop him from marking his territory in our yard.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Good Fridag
We like using Norwegian words around here. They are funny to say if you never grew up saying them. Especially if you use the awesome sing-songy Scandinavian intonations. Fridag is fun to say. Try it. (Sounds like free-daag.)
I feel like linking today -- mostly because Thomas the Tank engine is about to end and Lucy's naptime is almost over. I'm about to venture into the embarrassing world of trying to make eggs look like Spiderman, or is that Spidermen? But now that I am no longer the hug and kiss of choice for either of my men first thing in the morning, I must go that extra mile to compete against she who can barely sit up just yet. Oh dear. I did just say that. But sadly, it's true.
This post about peeps (the weird Easter treat, not your pals) at Anne Nahm is funnier than Norwegian words like kjottkaker (sounds kinda like shitcaca but means meatball)
BlogAntagonist wrote about faith in a very cool way. This is something I'd like to pontificate on soon. (Maybe for this week's Scarborough Sunday.) Maybe if we could see God (or whomever you consider a higher power, if you in fact do think there is one) the way BA's son sees her... if we could find comfort and parallels in the imperfection of those who are on top... ah... this deserves a blog post. Need to let it marinate before I serve it up.
Since it's Christ's day and all, I'll be self indulgent and link to my article on the incredible composer Christos Hatzis.
Everyone's asking their readers to ask them questions. I don't know who started it, but I first read about it over at my blog-twin kgirl's place. (I wanted to know whether kgirl and I are the same person, but I don't think my question made it. Or kgirl figured that the answer was definitely yes and gave me the virtual shrug.) It's seems contagious. So why not. ASK ME ANYTHING. What have you always wanted to know? I'll pretty much tell you anything.
I had a question. I was wondering why the heck my TV had fingerprints all over it. Then I recorded this in action.
Did you miss that? Here it is again. (Ignore the mess please. The kids' crap is everywhere because I'm home alone with them both this morning and I am letting the inmates run the prison today.) Too bad Super Why doesn't have the power to clean glass surfaces.
At least he's getting exercise, right? Have a Good Fridag everyone. Remember not to eat meat if you're trying to avoid it today. (I always forget. I especially forget that pepperoni is considered meat, though just barely.)
I feel like linking today -- mostly because Thomas the Tank engine is about to end and Lucy's naptime is almost over. I'm about to venture into the embarrassing world of trying to make eggs look like Spiderman, or is that Spidermen? But now that I am no longer the hug and kiss of choice for either of my men first thing in the morning, I must go that extra mile to compete against she who can barely sit up just yet. Oh dear. I did just say that. But sadly, it's true.
This post about peeps (the weird Easter treat, not your pals) at Anne Nahm is funnier than Norwegian words like kjottkaker (sounds kinda like shitcaca but means meatball)
BlogAntagonist wrote about faith in a very cool way. This is something I'd like to pontificate on soon. (Maybe for this week's Scarborough Sunday.) Maybe if we could see God (or whomever you consider a higher power, if you in fact do think there is one) the way BA's son sees her... if we could find comfort and parallels in the imperfection of those who are on top... ah... this deserves a blog post. Need to let it marinate before I serve it up.
Since it's Christ's day and all, I'll be self indulgent and link to my article on the incredible composer Christos Hatzis.
Everyone's asking their readers to ask them questions. I don't know who started it, but I first read about it over at my blog-twin kgirl's place. (I wanted to know whether kgirl and I are the same person, but I don't think my question made it. Or kgirl figured that the answer was definitely yes and gave me the virtual shrug.) It's seems contagious. So why not. ASK ME ANYTHING. What have you always wanted to know? I'll pretty much tell you anything.
I had a question. I was wondering why the heck my TV had fingerprints all over it. Then I recorded this in action.
Did you miss that? Here it is again. (Ignore the mess please. The kids' crap is everywhere because I'm home alone with them both this morning and I am letting the inmates run the prison today.) Too bad Super Why doesn't have the power to clean glass surfaces.
At least he's getting exercise, right? Have a Good Fridag everyone. Remember not to eat meat if you're trying to avoid it today. (I always forget. I especially forget that pepperoni is considered meat, though just barely.)
Thursday, March 20, 2008
You're not the only one
Even little guys get tired of winter and long to wear their cute shoes. (Once worn by Josie.) And their vintage Helly Hansen rain jacket. (Once worn by daddy and Auntie Lise) Then they will beg you to let them onto the deck to splash in puddles. At seven p.m. When he should be winding down for bed. Then they will cry the next day when it's so cold your asshole tucks itself into your colon for warmth.
So here's my plea. Post your own, email me the link and let's get on this kick to bring on Spring. It should be about as effective as any other blogger campaign people try to get going. Actually it could work because we'll be harnessing the collective energy of the Secret. (Snickers -- but only a bit in case the Secret is actually real.)
Dear Spring,
Look at this little boy. He's done with snow. He wants to ride his bike and scare his mama half to death. Have mercy on him and show up, please? Pretty please? I will post sad photos like this until you comply.
Sincerely,
Scarb
PS: Did I mention how much more I like you than Winter and Summer? Because you're awesome Spring. (Not quite Autumn awesome, but really close.)
So here's my plea. Post your own, email me the link and let's get on this kick to bring on Spring. It should be about as effective as any other blogger campaign people try to get going. Actually it could work because we'll be harnessing the collective energy of the Secret. (Snickers -- but only a bit in case the Secret is actually real.)
Dear Spring,
Look at this little boy. He's done with snow. He wants to ride his bike and scare his mama half to death. Have mercy on him and show up, please? Pretty please? I will post sad photos like this until you comply.
Sincerely,
Scarb
PS: Did I mention how much more I like you than Winter and Summer? Because you're awesome Spring. (Not quite Autumn awesome, but really close.)
Model of Truth
OK -- just got back from a weekly date at my sister's. She PVRs as much as she can and Queen Nomad (whose son, my soon-to-be godson, is now nearing 6 months) and I play catch up on the TV we've been missing. Tonight we watched ANTM, The Bachelor, and Moment of Truth. (Some spoilers below)
Mostly it's an excuse to be stoopid together. Laughing at Tyra is a sport in our little threesome. Tonight, Tyra did not disappoint with some great line about how you can squint with your eyes open. "Do you see it? It's still there, it's still there, it's still there." Oh my. Almost as good as the time she went on vogueing the difference between looking like a model vs. looking like a prostitute. "You're fashion, you're a whore. You're fashion, you're a whore." That is some good shit.
So who are you loving on ANTM? I think Claire, the eco mom who drinks her own breastmilk is going to take it. But I also love weirdo Lauren who kinda looks like Sarah Polley. I was all about Witney for a while, because I love me some chach, but I don't know. I prefer the quiet ones.
I do hope they don't get rid of Dominique, because tranny jokes are never tiring. Seriously. Who doesn't love a good tranny comment here and there? We've taken to calling her Dom. When Miss J goes off on her, I can't even breathe I'm laughing so hard.
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OK, The Bachelor. This Bachelor is seriously THE best Bachelor ever. He's English. He's 6' 5". He's rich. And he's super nice. Like genuinely nice. The highlight of the first episode for me, and probably anyone who watched it, was this drunk trashy chick Stacey. Clearly she was on the wrong show. She should have been on Rock of Love or something.
Anyway, she is so trashed in Episode One, and the tag underneath her says "Graduate Student." She has a shiny blue sequin dress on with a cutout in the back that shows off her tramp stamp/tattoo. She is wasted and feeling up the Bachelor, Matt, while he's having a fairly decent conversation with a woman who looks like Ditta Von Teese. So Wastey Stacey suddenly interrupts and with the most serious face that only drunk-ass-bitches make, slurs, "I have a Bachelors in Nutrition. And I want to find a... pharmaceutical... that will cure something that no one has ever thought of." Wow. Did we ever laugh at that one. Thank heaven for PVR and the ability to rewind and laugh over and over.
Then she proceeds to stuff her (I think they were worn) panties in his pocket while he's talking to someone else -- except his pants have no pocket. So her "subtle" come-on is suddenly very obvious. Fuck me that was funny. He handled it very well. I was particularly amused when he showed her white lace thong to the camera in the anteroom, cotton gusset facing out. Wait, was that vag juice America? Fun.
****************************
Moment of Truth featured some Puerto Rican fake-titted, fake blonde, who looked like a porn star and claimed to be very religious. Even though her boyfriend was reminiscent of Lorenzo Lamas in the 80s, and she revealed she had hit him and that he had cheated on her on a business trip, we were kind of rooting for her. She was so forthright and unapologetic in her answers, claiming that the only person she cared about judging her was God, that I actually thought she was going to win all the money.
So after upsetting her mother, admitting she regrets breaking up with her ex-boyfriend in front of her new boyfriend and getting through some pretty hairy questions, she got nailed at just over $100,000. They asked her if she'd ever given sexual favours in order to get ahead in her career. She flat out said no and the lie detector said that wasn't true and just like that she was out. With zero.
Anyway, it always amazes me how people on that show will tell the most horrid truths about their loved ones, but usually get nailed on a career question. Please. That was not going to hurt her "modeling" career. So she gives the odd hand job to get the contract. La dee da. I think she really thought that she was fooling the system so well. I even thought she was either rather pious or a REALLY good liar. I should have known -- Scarbie's Law: When faced with the choice between pious and liar, remember 99% of people are liars to a degree. No one can be that good.
What are you watching these days?
****************************
See people, you can squint with your eyes open. Do you see it?
It's still there.
It's still there.
Mostly it's an excuse to be stoopid together. Laughing at Tyra is a sport in our little threesome. Tonight, Tyra did not disappoint with some great line about how you can squint with your eyes open. "Do you see it? It's still there, it's still there, it's still there." Oh my. Almost as good as the time she went on vogueing the difference between looking like a model vs. looking like a prostitute. "You're fashion, you're a whore. You're fashion, you're a whore." That is some good shit.
So who are you loving on ANTM? I think Claire, the eco mom who drinks her own breastmilk is going to take it. But I also love weirdo Lauren who kinda looks like Sarah Polley. I was all about Witney for a while, because I love me some chach, but I don't know. I prefer the quiet ones.
I do hope they don't get rid of Dominique, because tranny jokes are never tiring. Seriously. Who doesn't love a good tranny comment here and there? We've taken to calling her Dom. When Miss J goes off on her, I can't even breathe I'm laughing so hard.
****************************
OK, The Bachelor. This Bachelor is seriously THE best Bachelor ever. He's English. He's 6' 5". He's rich. And he's super nice. Like genuinely nice. The highlight of the first episode for me, and probably anyone who watched it, was this drunk trashy chick Stacey. Clearly she was on the wrong show. She should have been on Rock of Love or something.
Anyway, she is so trashed in Episode One, and the tag underneath her says "Graduate Student." She has a shiny blue sequin dress on with a cutout in the back that shows off her tramp stamp/tattoo. She is wasted and feeling up the Bachelor, Matt, while he's having a fairly decent conversation with a woman who looks like Ditta Von Teese. So Wastey Stacey suddenly interrupts and with the most serious face that only drunk-ass-bitches make, slurs, "I have a Bachelors in Nutrition. And I want to find a... pharmaceutical... that will cure something that no one has ever thought of." Wow. Did we ever laugh at that one. Thank heaven for PVR and the ability to rewind and laugh over and over.
Then she proceeds to stuff her (I think they were worn) panties in his pocket while he's talking to someone else -- except his pants have no pocket. So her "subtle" come-on is suddenly very obvious. Fuck me that was funny. He handled it very well. I was particularly amused when he showed her white lace thong to the camera in the anteroom, cotton gusset facing out. Wait, was that vag juice America? Fun.
****************************
Moment of Truth featured some Puerto Rican fake-titted, fake blonde, who looked like a porn star and claimed to be very religious. Even though her boyfriend was reminiscent of Lorenzo Lamas in the 80s, and she revealed she had hit him and that he had cheated on her on a business trip, we were kind of rooting for her. She was so forthright and unapologetic in her answers, claiming that the only person she cared about judging her was God, that I actually thought she was going to win all the money.
So after upsetting her mother, admitting she regrets breaking up with her ex-boyfriend in front of her new boyfriend and getting through some pretty hairy questions, she got nailed at just over $100,000. They asked her if she'd ever given sexual favours in order to get ahead in her career. She flat out said no and the lie detector said that wasn't true and just like that she was out. With zero.
Anyway, it always amazes me how people on that show will tell the most horrid truths about their loved ones, but usually get nailed on a career question. Please. That was not going to hurt her "modeling" career. So she gives the odd hand job to get the contract. La dee da. I think she really thought that she was fooling the system so well. I even thought she was either rather pious or a REALLY good liar. I should have known -- Scarbie's Law: When faced with the choice between pious and liar, remember 99% of people are liars to a degree. No one can be that good.
What are you watching these days?
****************************
See people, you can squint with your eyes open. Do you see it?
It's still there.
It's still there.No photo retouching kids. That's my natural three days of unwashed hair and Louis Vuitton-worthy undereye bags. I did put on lipstick so as not to totally frighten you. No mom should use PhotoBooth past midnight.
(Don't hate me because my eyebrows kick ass. I'm Armenian. I've been tweezing since I could hold tweezers.)
(Don't hate me because my eyebrows kick ass. I'm Armenian. I've been tweezing since I could hold tweezers.)
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
"My Mexican Nanny" and other arsery
There's a woman we know around here who constantly drops this line: "My Mexican nanny."
As in, "We used to have a Mexican nanny."
Or, "My Mexican nanny used to cook awesome dinners for us."
(She no longer "has" aforementioned "Mexican" nanny.)
WTF? Why is her nationality important? It makes me want to go through all my vocabulary and make sure I didn't insert stupid markers like that. But everybody does it. I know I'm guilty with a quick search through my head.
Like why do I feel the need to tell you that my hairdresser is gay? He's also one of my most adored friends, but I'm sure I'd mention he's gay before I mention he's my friend.
What gives? Does that extra describer make him seem more legit? Does my fucking awesome hair not speak for itself? Actually, my hair speaks all the time, but it's usually saying, "Don't be such a lazy frumpo housewife cliche and bust out the ceramic-ionic-iron-thingy biznatch."
Anyway, I need to look into childcare. Even though I'm still not 100% sure what I'll be doing. My husband has agreed to take the summer off and work freelance so he can stay home with the kids. It's a start. But what to do if I decide to take a job before June? How do I find infant care close enough to my son's preschool when I didn't "roll over and dial?" Surely the lists for the hot places are all full.
My pal Kate is due with her second any minute now. She being my closest neighbour and one of my closest friends, sharing a nanny seems like a possibility. But even with owning her own business, she won't be back to work proper until January. (As if! Isn't the "working mat leave" the new trend?)
Then "Mexican nanny" woman comes along and now the nanny thing has a bit of a stigma. Especially for us slum-loving Little India folk. Nanny screams gentrification. It screams Starbucks instead of Red Rocket or Mercury. Big box vs. Nathalie Roze. It screams embarrassment at having to pay a foreigner low wages to wipe our kids' bums. Not to mention it makes us feel embarrassed to have someone try to entertain our kids in our teeny weeny houses with little or no play space. There is an ick-factor. I don't know why, but there is.
What do you think?
As in, "We used to have a Mexican nanny."
Or, "My Mexican nanny used to cook awesome dinners for us."
(She no longer "has" aforementioned "Mexican" nanny.)
WTF? Why is her nationality important? It makes me want to go through all my vocabulary and make sure I didn't insert stupid markers like that. But everybody does it. I know I'm guilty with a quick search through my head.
Like why do I feel the need to tell you that my hairdresser is gay? He's also one of my most adored friends, but I'm sure I'd mention he's gay before I mention he's my friend.
What gives? Does that extra describer make him seem more legit? Does my fucking awesome hair not speak for itself? Actually, my hair speaks all the time, but it's usually saying, "Don't be such a lazy frumpo housewife cliche and bust out the ceramic-ionic-iron-thingy biznatch."
Anyway, I need to look into childcare. Even though I'm still not 100% sure what I'll be doing. My husband has agreed to take the summer off and work freelance so he can stay home with the kids. It's a start. But what to do if I decide to take a job before June? How do I find infant care close enough to my son's preschool when I didn't "roll over and dial?" Surely the lists for the hot places are all full.
My pal Kate is due with her second any minute now. She being my closest neighbour and one of my closest friends, sharing a nanny seems like a possibility. But even with owning her own business, she won't be back to work proper until January. (As if! Isn't the "working mat leave" the new trend?)
Then "Mexican nanny" woman comes along and now the nanny thing has a bit of a stigma. Especially for us slum-loving Little India folk. Nanny screams gentrification. It screams Starbucks instead of Red Rocket or Mercury. Big box vs. Nathalie Roze. It screams embarrassment at having to pay a foreigner low wages to wipe our kids' bums. Not to mention it makes us feel embarrassed to have someone try to entertain our kids in our teeny weeny houses with little or no play space. There is an ick-factor. I don't know why, but there is.
What do you think?
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Scarborough Sunday: My first best friend
When I was four, my parents moved us to a tiny townhouse complex on Brookmill Boulevard. The new subdivision was a big step up from our rental apartment in the heart of Scarborough. For immigrants, paying into a mortgage and having your own home was the big rung on the ladder. It was cashing in the ultimate coupon of the promised land.
On our row there were about a dozen houses, nestled side-by-side like marzipan squares. Directly across from us was a row of identical townhouses, with one less in the row to accommodate a walkway that lead to the playground. The playground was the vortex of our childhood, linking together the other rows, which at the time seemed miles away. If you didn't live directly amongst the two dozen houses I could see from my front walk, you might as well have been in Siberia.
In between these two rows of houses was a parking lot that lead out to a small street, which lead to the bigger road that featured my public school, which lead to an even bigger road with the mall. Even though we were broke, walking to the mall was a favourite pastime. My father worked nights and my mother had to entertain two young girls every evening. On summer nights, trips to Towers or Kmart to buy aluminum foil or a new hula hoop would be considered a special event.
The backyards of our houses were all joined in a long row, with partial fences between properties for semi-privacy. Most of the mothers were home back then, so we ran freely from yard to yard, jumping into turtle pools and hopping over sprinklers. At the Westernmost tip of the row lived Shireen Ali and her brother Mohammed. (Yes, we thought it was cool too.) At the easternmost tip lived my best friend, Cameron.
Cameron was a year younger than me, blond and skinny in a Christopher Robin with knee socks and sandals way. We were inseparable. His mom was a short-haired, tall Australian and his dad a Burton Cummings-looking, dark-moustached chain smoker. They weren't his biological parents, but we didn't really know what being adopted meant. They were just cool.
Cameron was easy to get along with. Mostly because he did what I said. One day I berated him to tie his own shoes. (I was 6, he was 5) His mother was quietly watching us and said, "Cameron, if your friend asked you to jump off the CN Tower, would you?" I had never heard this saying before. It was the first of many sayings that would be new to me as a child of immigrants.
My parents' saying were always uttered in Turkish, with some rhyming pattern and cryptic message that doesn't translate well. Çamura taş atma. "Don't throw a stone in the mud." Something equivalent to don't disturb a bee hive, or don't knowingly cause a shitstorm. (If only George Bush had Turkish speaking parents. This could have been applied to the Iraq situation.)
When Cameron's mother said that to him, I defiantly retorted, "I would never ask him to do that. I just want him to tie his own shoes." My six year-old-brain did not compute. I could tie my shoes, why the heck couldn't he?
Cameron was one of the few kids in the complex whose mother worked. While the rest of us were eating cheese and crackers and watching the Flinstones, he was at an after school program. Daycare, I suppose. But unlike our children today, we had no knowledge of that word. Sometimes I would get to ride in the car with Ken, his dad, to pick Cameron up. The overwhelming stench of cigarettes would fill my nostrils with pleasure at the thought of how irate it might make my mother. It was the smell of otherness. Just as I'm sure that the smell of my mother's garlicky cooking was for them.
One day Cameron brought me a painting. Perhaps I've written about this before, but it's a day that I've replayed many times over the past 25 years and I feel the need to write it down again. I remember it was sunny. I could see Ken's head approaching over my mother's immaculately trimmed hedges and the tiny bit of privacy they gave the front of our small house.
"Cameron would like to give you something," Ken said with a smile. Cameron shyly held up the painting. It was the painting of a 5-year-old boy: grey with red and orange swirly circles. Primitive but sweet. Yet I felt my mood cloud over.
"I don't want it!" I said dramatically.
I remember my mother trying to coax me to be polite. Ken also tried to smooth things over with a "Surely you don't mean that?" And surely I didn't. But something in me was determined to crush little Cameron's spirit. It was the first time I can remember being a bitch.
I hurt and embarrassed my first best friend that day. He walked away with his dad's arm around him, his sad little painting trailing behind him in the summer breeze. I'm sure I got in shit, that my mom was embarrassed by my behaviour. I was the oldest and therefore the "good child." Yet I had chosen that day to be difficult, to test out my dark side.
******************************************
Cameron got me back for being a bitch that day. He moved to Australia when I was 7. I was heartbroken. I thought of him for years and looked forward to receiving their annual Christmas cards with updates from his mother. When I was 16 we heard that they were coming back to Toronto for a visit. I looked forward to Cameron's return for weeks, imagining we would see each other and immediately fall in love. (I was 16 remember?)
When he and Ken showed up, I was surprised. Cameron had grown into a lanky, greyhound of a boy, with a cracking voice and an Aussie accent. He was awkward and we had nothing to say to each other. And what had I thought we would say? "Hey remember that time we were playing 'I'll show you mine' in the playground and your mother drove by just as you whipped out your penis?"
The Christmas cards became less frequent. It's entirely possible that they still arrived, but that my mother was less eager to read them aloud. Cameron took a left turn somewhere. The last time I heard of him he had robbed a liquor store and had gone to jail. It pained me to hear it.
I still think of him from time to time. Outside of my family, his friendship was the first important relationship I had. I hope he's turned his life around and that he's happy somewhere, listening to the ocean.
************************************
I have one book from my childhood. Just one that I've kept all these years. It's a book of poems called The Rose on my Cake by Karla Kuskin. Inside bears the following inscription:
There was a young girl named Nadine
Who tried so hard being polite + serene
BUT --
SOMETIMES: --
HOLY HATRACK!
A SHOUT and a YELL would come right OUT!
Her Mum would laugh with delight at such a silly sight
OH YES
NADiNE is a lovely natural girl.
It's dated 1978 and though it's attributed to Cameron, it's his mother's unmistakable penmanship. Describing me at 4-years-old. I trace my fingers over the blue ball point letters, hoping to know more of myself as a girl. But all I have are these memories, scraps of an innocence lost.
On our row there were about a dozen houses, nestled side-by-side like marzipan squares. Directly across from us was a row of identical townhouses, with one less in the row to accommodate a walkway that lead to the playground. The playground was the vortex of our childhood, linking together the other rows, which at the time seemed miles away. If you didn't live directly amongst the two dozen houses I could see from my front walk, you might as well have been in Siberia.
In between these two rows of houses was a parking lot that lead out to a small street, which lead to the bigger road that featured my public school, which lead to an even bigger road with the mall. Even though we were broke, walking to the mall was a favourite pastime. My father worked nights and my mother had to entertain two young girls every evening. On summer nights, trips to Towers or Kmart to buy aluminum foil or a new hula hoop would be considered a special event.
The backyards of our houses were all joined in a long row, with partial fences between properties for semi-privacy. Most of the mothers were home back then, so we ran freely from yard to yard, jumping into turtle pools and hopping over sprinklers. At the Westernmost tip of the row lived Shireen Ali and her brother Mohammed. (Yes, we thought it was cool too.) At the easternmost tip lived my best friend, Cameron.
Cameron was a year younger than me, blond and skinny in a Christopher Robin with knee socks and sandals way. We were inseparable. His mom was a short-haired, tall Australian and his dad a Burton Cummings-looking, dark-moustached chain smoker. They weren't his biological parents, but we didn't really know what being adopted meant. They were just cool.Cameron was easy to get along with. Mostly because he did what I said. One day I berated him to tie his own shoes. (I was 6, he was 5) His mother was quietly watching us and said, "Cameron, if your friend asked you to jump off the CN Tower, would you?" I had never heard this saying before. It was the first of many sayings that would be new to me as a child of immigrants.
My parents' saying were always uttered in Turkish, with some rhyming pattern and cryptic message that doesn't translate well. Çamura taş atma. "Don't throw a stone in the mud." Something equivalent to don't disturb a bee hive, or don't knowingly cause a shitstorm. (If only George Bush had Turkish speaking parents. This could have been applied to the Iraq situation.)
When Cameron's mother said that to him, I defiantly retorted, "I would never ask him to do that. I just want him to tie his own shoes." My six year-old-brain did not compute. I could tie my shoes, why the heck couldn't he?
Cameron was one of the few kids in the complex whose mother worked. While the rest of us were eating cheese and crackers and watching the Flinstones, he was at an after school program. Daycare, I suppose. But unlike our children today, we had no knowledge of that word. Sometimes I would get to ride in the car with Ken, his dad, to pick Cameron up. The overwhelming stench of cigarettes would fill my nostrils with pleasure at the thought of how irate it might make my mother. It was the smell of otherness. Just as I'm sure that the smell of my mother's garlicky cooking was for them.
One day Cameron brought me a painting. Perhaps I've written about this before, but it's a day that I've replayed many times over the past 25 years and I feel the need to write it down again. I remember it was sunny. I could see Ken's head approaching over my mother's immaculately trimmed hedges and the tiny bit of privacy they gave the front of our small house."Cameron would like to give you something," Ken said with a smile. Cameron shyly held up the painting. It was the painting of a 5-year-old boy: grey with red and orange swirly circles. Primitive but sweet. Yet I felt my mood cloud over.
"I don't want it!" I said dramatically.
I remember my mother trying to coax me to be polite. Ken also tried to smooth things over with a "Surely you don't mean that?" And surely I didn't. But something in me was determined to crush little Cameron's spirit. It was the first time I can remember being a bitch.
I hurt and embarrassed my first best friend that day. He walked away with his dad's arm around him, his sad little painting trailing behind him in the summer breeze. I'm sure I got in shit, that my mom was embarrassed by my behaviour. I was the oldest and therefore the "good child." Yet I had chosen that day to be difficult, to test out my dark side.
******************************************
Cameron got me back for being a bitch that day. He moved to Australia when I was 7. I was heartbroken. I thought of him for years and looked forward to receiving their annual Christmas cards with updates from his mother. When I was 16 we heard that they were coming back to Toronto for a visit. I looked forward to Cameron's return for weeks, imagining we would see each other and immediately fall in love. (I was 16 remember?)
When he and Ken showed up, I was surprised. Cameron had grown into a lanky, greyhound of a boy, with a cracking voice and an Aussie accent. He was awkward and we had nothing to say to each other. And what had I thought we would say? "Hey remember that time we were playing 'I'll show you mine' in the playground and your mother drove by just as you whipped out your penis?"
The Christmas cards became less frequent. It's entirely possible that they still arrived, but that my mother was less eager to read them aloud. Cameron took a left turn somewhere. The last time I heard of him he had robbed a liquor store and had gone to jail. It pained me to hear it.
I still think of him from time to time. Outside of my family, his friendship was the first important relationship I had. I hope he's turned his life around and that he's happy somewhere, listening to the ocean.
************************************
I have one book from my childhood. Just one that I've kept all these years. It's a book of poems called The Rose on my Cake by Karla Kuskin. Inside bears the following inscription:
There was a young girl named Nadine
Who tried so hard being polite + serene
BUT --
SOMETIMES: --
HOLY HATRACK!
A SHOUT and a YELL would come right OUT!
Her Mum would laugh with delight at such a silly sight
OH YES
NADiNE is a lovely natural girl.
It's dated 1978 and though it's attributed to Cameron, it's his mother's unmistakable penmanship. Describing me at 4-years-old. I trace my fingers over the blue ball point letters, hoping to know more of myself as a girl. But all I have are these memories, scraps of an innocence lost.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
The clap heard 'round the world
Last night, the huzzle and I hit the Chris Rock show at Massey Hall. The night started out incredibly with no kids, a trip to Winners/TJ Maxx for a new top to wear, then a sushi dinner at Nami, lots of batting eyelashes and giggling.
We walked to the concert venue hand in hand, stood in line (two back-to-back shows meant waiting while the first show let out.) and then took our seats. Massey Hall is a gorgeous 150-year-old building that makes for an intimate concert setting with fantastic acoustics and pretty good sight-lines.
It also means that your thigh is touching the person next to you, and the person in front of you grazes your knees when they throw their head back to laugh. Ordinarily, I don't mind this. I love seeing shows there and have always had a great experience. But last night's performance was tainted by this environment, and not due to the people around me.
My husband has the clap.
Now, don't get your knickers in a twist. It's not like he has VD or an STI or whatever they call them these days. No, no. My husband, the Viking, the Titan, the man who does not know his own strength, has the loudest clap you have ever heard.
In a regular music show it's not really a problem. The clapping is often restrained to certain points of a show. But for a comedy show, where a person might feel the need to clap in agreement with EVERYTHING the comedian is saying, well it's downright fucking annoying.
He also has the really loud whistle, which I scold him for because it makes me deaf for about 15 seconds after I hear it right next to my head. After much bitching, he has found a way to do the whistle without annoying people too much. (This, after at a Radiohead concert, someone told him to quit it with the whistle.) He cannot help himself. He can't really tone it down. He is just THAT GUY.
But the whistle did not bother me as much as the clap. I was annoyed and his hands were a foot away from me. My ears were ringing from the reverb. But what made it worse was that I could see the people in front of us wincing with each clap. His hands were right. behind. their. heads. The huz was oblivious to this. Completely unaware.
It's the tone of the clap too. Aside from being like 10+ on the stereo dial, it's a "Yo man, I'm so feeling ya dawg," type of clap. It's like, buddy I hate to break it to you, but it's not like Chris Rock is going to hear your clap up in the balcony and say, "Who's doing that clap? He is clearly my biggest fan. Come on down here so I can shake those clapping hands!"
Now, how to get him to stop without totally ruining his time? This was especially hard since Chris Rock was doing a whole bit about how women do not want their men to have a good time. "Um love, do you mind easing up on that clap, it's hurting my ears?" He bristled, but for 5 minutes he managed to tone it down. Then he was right back at it again. Hmmm, I thought, maybe if I hold his hand, he'll be unable to clap. Brilliant! I took his hand in mine, even though it's not like the Chris Rock show was romantic, so the hand grab was completely out of context. But I tried to make it seem like a "I'm so glad we're here together" hand squeeze.
Then things got funny again and I could feel his left hand wanting to meet the right one. He tried slapping his knee for a while, but it wasn't doing it for him, so he broke the hand hold to clap. Motherfucker!
I gave up. Me and about four other people had to resolve to try to enjoy the show in spite of the clapping. I did not want to ruin his time, and I certainly did not want to point out that other people were having a bad time, because then he'd be pissed that I cared more about their enjoyment of the show than his own.
The lights came up and I couldn't hold it in any longer. "Dude, you have the LOUDEST clap in the world. My ears are killing."
"Well, what can I say? I was having a good time."
Then the guy in front of us turned around and said, "Yeah man, that's a pretty loud clap you've got there. It was a pretty good show, but my ears..."
The huz got all defensive instantly. He shrugged his shoulders, "What can I say? I'm just trying to be appreciative. That's too bad."
"Oh my God you are so fucking rude," I snapped. "Can't you just say sorry?"
"But I'm not."
"Those people did not have a good time because of you. I did not have a good time because of your damn clap."
"Oh well."
The most blood-boiling thing is that he acts as though it's not his fault. "Toronto doesn't know how to have a good time. I guess I can't go to shows anymore because everyone in Toronto is boring."
"Um, are you saying that I'm boring? Because I can fucking assure you that I did not show up here thinking, I don't want to have a good time. You are just fucking inconsiderate. Ugh!"
On and on it went, with him refusing to admit he was outta line. So I walked down the street clapping behind his head. I tried to explain to him that it's equivalent to someone wearing perfume and thinking, "Wow, I smell so good. I love this smell," with no thought as to whether anyone else wants to smell your ass perfume. (95% of the time, I don't.) Totally obnoxious.
I tried to explain that it's like me and drinking. I am a total asshole when I drink excessively. I get loud and talk shit. I might enjoy being drunk, but it embarrasses and annoys the people I care about, so I don't drink past tipsy anymore. Can't he just go out and draw the line to his so-called "appreciativeness"?
Apparently not. So we went to our opposite sides of the bed. All that waxing and hair did and new top and box of condoms for nought. About as un-funny as Chris Rock's rape tape. Definitely not buying him tickets to see Leonard Cohen for his birthday now. (Can you imagine the scene he would cause at that quiet show?!)
We walked to the concert venue hand in hand, stood in line (two back-to-back shows meant waiting while the first show let out.) and then took our seats. Massey Hall is a gorgeous 150-year-old building that makes for an intimate concert setting with fantastic acoustics and pretty good sight-lines.
It also means that your thigh is touching the person next to you, and the person in front of you grazes your knees when they throw their head back to laugh. Ordinarily, I don't mind this. I love seeing shows there and have always had a great experience. But last night's performance was tainted by this environment, and not due to the people around me.
My husband has the clap.
Now, don't get your knickers in a twist. It's not like he has VD or an STI or whatever they call them these days. No, no. My husband, the Viking, the Titan, the man who does not know his own strength, has the loudest clap you have ever heard.
In a regular music show it's not really a problem. The clapping is often restrained to certain points of a show. But for a comedy show, where a person might feel the need to clap in agreement with EVERYTHING the comedian is saying, well it's downright fucking annoying.
He also has the really loud whistle, which I scold him for because it makes me deaf for about 15 seconds after I hear it right next to my head. After much bitching, he has found a way to do the whistle without annoying people too much. (This, after at a Radiohead concert, someone told him to quit it with the whistle.) He cannot help himself. He can't really tone it down. He is just THAT GUY.
But the whistle did not bother me as much as the clap. I was annoyed and his hands were a foot away from me. My ears were ringing from the reverb. But what made it worse was that I could see the people in front of us wincing with each clap. His hands were right. behind. their. heads. The huz was oblivious to this. Completely unaware.
It's the tone of the clap too. Aside from being like 10+ on the stereo dial, it's a "Yo man, I'm so feeling ya dawg," type of clap. It's like, buddy I hate to break it to you, but it's not like Chris Rock is going to hear your clap up in the balcony and say, "Who's doing that clap? He is clearly my biggest fan. Come on down here so I can shake those clapping hands!"
Now, how to get him to stop without totally ruining his time? This was especially hard since Chris Rock was doing a whole bit about how women do not want their men to have a good time. "Um love, do you mind easing up on that clap, it's hurting my ears?" He bristled, but for 5 minutes he managed to tone it down. Then he was right back at it again. Hmmm, I thought, maybe if I hold his hand, he'll be unable to clap. Brilliant! I took his hand in mine, even though it's not like the Chris Rock show was romantic, so the hand grab was completely out of context. But I tried to make it seem like a "I'm so glad we're here together" hand squeeze.
Then things got funny again and I could feel his left hand wanting to meet the right one. He tried slapping his knee for a while, but it wasn't doing it for him, so he broke the hand hold to clap. Motherfucker!
I gave up. Me and about four other people had to resolve to try to enjoy the show in spite of the clapping. I did not want to ruin his time, and I certainly did not want to point out that other people were having a bad time, because then he'd be pissed that I cared more about their enjoyment of the show than his own.
The lights came up and I couldn't hold it in any longer. "Dude, you have the LOUDEST clap in the world. My ears are killing."
"Well, what can I say? I was having a good time."
Then the guy in front of us turned around and said, "Yeah man, that's a pretty loud clap you've got there. It was a pretty good show, but my ears..."
The huz got all defensive instantly. He shrugged his shoulders, "What can I say? I'm just trying to be appreciative. That's too bad."
"Oh my God you are so fucking rude," I snapped. "Can't you just say sorry?"
"But I'm not."
"Those people did not have a good time because of you. I did not have a good time because of your damn clap."
"Oh well."
The most blood-boiling thing is that he acts as though it's not his fault. "Toronto doesn't know how to have a good time. I guess I can't go to shows anymore because everyone in Toronto is boring."
"Um, are you saying that I'm boring? Because I can fucking assure you that I did not show up here thinking, I don't want to have a good time. You are just fucking inconsiderate. Ugh!"
On and on it went, with him refusing to admit he was outta line. So I walked down the street clapping behind his head. I tried to explain to him that it's equivalent to someone wearing perfume and thinking, "Wow, I smell so good. I love this smell," with no thought as to whether anyone else wants to smell your ass perfume. (95% of the time, I don't.) Totally obnoxious.
I tried to explain that it's like me and drinking. I am a total asshole when I drink excessively. I get loud and talk shit. I might enjoy being drunk, but it embarrasses and annoys the people I care about, so I don't drink past tipsy anymore. Can't he just go out and draw the line to his so-called "appreciativeness"?
Apparently not. So we went to our opposite sides of the bed. All that waxing and hair did and new top and box of condoms for nought. About as un-funny as Chris Rock's rape tape. Definitely not buying him tickets to see Leonard Cohen for his birthday now. (Can you imagine the scene he would cause at that quiet show?!)
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Notes from a new me
First off, thanks to everyone for their kind words and encouraging comments. It's inspiring me to try to write here every day. I remember being at my desk and dying to read something fun over my lunch hour. I also remember being up at three a.m. with a cranky baby and dying to read something fun during those endless hours of boring breastfeeding. So here I am. A little bit for me and a little bit for all of you.
Anyway, venting last night was good. I have started today fresh. I have a new haircut (post to come) with freshly painted roots. The other hair on my body has been dealt with. I took a shower and put the good tea tree lotion on my rough spot, and the REALLY good Bio Oil (post to come) on my stretch marks. My husband is off work today, so after I put on my five-minute face (Lancome Hypnose mascara, Smashbox Aperture blush, Lorac gloss stick in Sheer Berry) I headed to my favourite local coffee place with wifi. I'm writing this from there right now!
I feel good. It's a sunny day, a new start. I thought I'd warm up here before starting work on my Junos assignment, which is definitely enough to keep my mind busy. Here are some updates on all that has been going on:
Anyway, venting last night was good. I have started today fresh. I have a new haircut (post to come) with freshly painted roots. The other hair on my body has been dealt with. I took a shower and put the good tea tree lotion on my rough spot, and the REALLY good Bio Oil (post to come) on my stretch marks. My husband is off work today, so after I put on my five-minute face (Lancome Hypnose mascara, Smashbox Aperture blush, Lorac gloss stick in Sheer Berry) I headed to my favourite local coffee place with wifi. I'm writing this from there right now!
I feel good. It's a sunny day, a new start. I thought I'd warm up here before starting work on my Junos assignment, which is definitely enough to keep my mind busy. Here are some updates on all that has been going on:
- I am no longer bitter about what happened yesterday. You guys helped so much with that. Which makes the huzzle mad, because when he tried to be encouraging yesterday -- I kinda told him off for being so idealistic. I'm such an ass. Now I'm going to have to suck his dick as penance. (Yes, I wince as I type because I know my mother is reading. But I must do what I do regardless. Just pray that my MIL is not reading from her trip in Florida.)
- After calling him Stanley Roper a few times, the Dog did put out some the other day. In fact I got double some -- which hasn't happened since he turned 30 and decided he was geriatric. So all you other frustrated housewives out there -- you might want to try that trick. Apparently it works better than a push-up bra.
- The bikini wax lure did not work last night because the huzzle went out for beers. I found the beef patty paper bag this morning -- always a bad sign. If you have to go to the sketch coffee shop on Gerrard to have sub-standard, potentially-contaminated meat wrapped in pastry... it's not good. Don't get me wrong. I love beef patties. But I will drive to the depths of Scarborough to Mr. Patty on Kingston to get me some good ones.
- The cat is missing. Probably due to the beef-pattied drunk who does not remember letting her out at 3 a.m. Her food bowl is in the basement, which we do at night when she drives us nutso, but Scout is nowhere to be found. The curious incident of the cat in the night-time. I'll let you know how this plays out. She sometimes comes back after three days reeking of beer and smokes. Whore.
- Thanks for all your suggestions on the light in the kids' room sitch. I found a Lightening McQueen flashlight/Lantern at Rip-offs-r-us and it's doing the trick. We end up winding Nate down in our own room and then pretend it's an adventure as we quietly tiptoe to their room, flashlight in hand, careful not to wake the Goose. Who is actually not so quick to wake lately. I can actually peek at her sleeping head for 45 seconds before she stirs. It's an improvement.
- I interviewed Steve from Sum41 and now I kinda have a crush on him, even though I have never been a Sum 41 fan. I am a Wintersleep fan though, so if you haven't checked them out yet read my profile on them and then check out their MySpace page (Link at the bottom of the piece) to hear what they sound like.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Good news and bad news
I'm sitting here eating mayo out of the jar (yes, it's gross, but I find it comforting) and tearing at my cuticles until they bleed. I've had the strangest day. I find myself at a crossroads yet again and wondering whether I should even write about it.
I have been complaining quite a bit, haven't I? But I still make you laugh when I bitch, don't I? I hope so, because I need to find some humour in this latest bit of news. Let's see if my rambling will lead to something funny.
I had a message on my machine last night from my boss at ParentDish. Two things struck me immediately:
Then I thought, no no Nadine, don't do that to yourself. Then I thought and thought some more until the hamster in my brain got off his wheel and held up a picket sign. By the time the Dog came home I had whittled my thoughts down to, "I think I'm about to get bad news, but there's nothing I can do about it, so I'm not going to lose sleep over it."
And I definitely stuck to that! We woke up at 9 am this morning with a chortling gasp, as though our heads had been in the sand all night. (Hooray for central heating dry mouth.) Lucine has been our alarm clock for the past 6 months. Yet it was the cat who was waking us all up. "She must be dead," thought my morose stupid brain. "Stop it!" shouted Rational to Irrational.
Oh my, that little girl is slee--- no I won't say it for fear of jinxing it. Let's just say we're finally getting some zeds around here. For now. Anyway, we headed about our day, having breakfast, getting dressed. The morning chatter as of late has made this anti-morning activist have a change of heart. The way Nate enthusiastically screams, "Igottanidea! Let's go down and have bweakfast!" well it makes me get out of my cosy warm bed in a hurry.
After the cereal bowls were cleared, I headed off to be desasquatched. I enjoy my dates with Flora at SugarMoon Salon. She's fun and easy to talk to and we just brag about our kids for an hour. It's nice. Then I came home for the inevitable phone call.
My boss sounded weary and uncomfortable and I knew it was coming. I felt sad because I really just wanted to talk to her casually and ask about the boy crush I've been reading about on her blog. But business is business and it's never fun telling someone they can't work for you anymore.
To be clear, I wasn't exactly fired. I was let go from ParentDish today along with a handful of other bloggers due to some changes from head office. I don't really know all the details. It's a bummer for sure. They're no longer interested in the personal posts and that's what I tend to do when I'm in the mood to write.
Also, I'm sporadic in my writing on that site (well, here too). It's something I've been wanting to rectify for so long, but I just can't seem to do it. My life doesn't seem to work that way. I don't know how ParentDisher Linda Lee blogs so frequently with a newborn and a preschooler. I just don't. Because I can't seem to manage anything remotely close to her output.
That is the one thing I'll take away from all this is that I really need to work on my time management and reliability. It's something I have to make a more conscious effort to teach my own children -- commitment. But how do you teach a skill you don't really have? Maybe we can all learn together.
I guess in the back of my mind I had thought that when my mat leave was up, were I not to go back to work, I could just focus on writing for PD full-time. But it looks as though Plan B is out. So that's part of what's doing a number on my head.
The second part of it is pure ego. It sucks to be cut from the team. It makes you second guess your talents, your skills, your worth. I guess I'll just have to take some time to grieve and then move on. It's not like life is over. It just feels a bit like a break-up. But it's not like I'm getting dumped by my soulmate. More like a boyfriend I was fond of.
The good news is that I can now focus on my real love: writing with curse words. Here. Though, that was sullied a tad this week too. My mother, who recently started reading this blog thanks to Facebook, commented, "It's good, but less swearing." Normally I would have ranted back with "Mind your fucking business Ma!" but maybe she's right. *gasp* The old me would have:
Wow, nothing funny there folks. Maybe I'll have to go test drive today's bikini wax on the huzzle and see if hilarity ensues.
I have been complaining quite a bit, haven't I? But I still make you laugh when I bitch, don't I? I hope so, because I need to find some humour in this latest bit of news. Let's see if my rambling will lead to something funny.
I had a message on my machine last night from my boss at ParentDish. Two things struck me immediately:
- Miss Super Busy, whom I adore so much, actually had time to call me. Wait. Or was that made time to call me?
- She said something about "changes" and her voice wasn't cheery.
Then I thought, no no Nadine, don't do that to yourself. Then I thought and thought some more until the hamster in my brain got off his wheel and held up a picket sign. By the time the Dog came home I had whittled my thoughts down to, "I think I'm about to get bad news, but there's nothing I can do about it, so I'm not going to lose sleep over it."
And I definitely stuck to that! We woke up at 9 am this morning with a chortling gasp, as though our heads had been in the sand all night. (Hooray for central heating dry mouth.) Lucine has been our alarm clock for the past 6 months. Yet it was the cat who was waking us all up. "She must be dead," thought my morose stupid brain. "Stop it!" shouted Rational to Irrational.
Oh my, that little girl is slee--- no I won't say it for fear of jinxing it. Let's just say we're finally getting some zeds around here. For now. Anyway, we headed about our day, having breakfast, getting dressed. The morning chatter as of late has made this anti-morning activist have a change of heart. The way Nate enthusiastically screams, "Igottanidea! Let's go down and have bweakfast!" well it makes me get out of my cosy warm bed in a hurry.
After the cereal bowls were cleared, I headed off to be desasquatched. I enjoy my dates with Flora at SugarMoon Salon. She's fun and easy to talk to and we just brag about our kids for an hour. It's nice. Then I came home for the inevitable phone call.
My boss sounded weary and uncomfortable and I knew it was coming. I felt sad because I really just wanted to talk to her casually and ask about the boy crush I've been reading about on her blog. But business is business and it's never fun telling someone they can't work for you anymore.
To be clear, I wasn't exactly fired. I was let go from ParentDish today along with a handful of other bloggers due to some changes from head office. I don't really know all the details. It's a bummer for sure. They're no longer interested in the personal posts and that's what I tend to do when I'm in the mood to write.
Also, I'm sporadic in my writing on that site (well, here too). It's something I've been wanting to rectify for so long, but I just can't seem to do it. My life doesn't seem to work that way. I don't know how ParentDisher Linda Lee blogs so frequently with a newborn and a preschooler. I just don't. Because I can't seem to manage anything remotely close to her output.
That is the one thing I'll take away from all this is that I really need to work on my time management and reliability. It's something I have to make a more conscious effort to teach my own children -- commitment. But how do you teach a skill you don't really have? Maybe we can all learn together.
I guess in the back of my mind I had thought that when my mat leave was up, were I not to go back to work, I could just focus on writing for PD full-time. But it looks as though Plan B is out. So that's part of what's doing a number on my head.
The second part of it is pure ego. It sucks to be cut from the team. It makes you second guess your talents, your skills, your worth. I guess I'll just have to take some time to grieve and then move on. It's not like life is over. It just feels a bit like a break-up. But it's not like I'm getting dumped by my soulmate. More like a boyfriend I was fond of.
The good news is that I can now focus on my real love: writing with curse words. Here. Though, that was sullied a tad this week too. My mother, who recently started reading this blog thanks to Facebook, commented, "It's good, but less swearing." Normally I would have ranted back with "Mind your fucking business Ma!" but maybe she's right. *gasp* The old me would have:
- Never listened to her mom
- Written this whole post with a "Fuck you beeyatches, you don't know what you'll be missing" slant.
Wow, nothing funny there folks. Maybe I'll have to go test drive today's bikini wax on the huzzle and see if hilarity ensues.
Sunday, March 09, 2008
OMG! I've become Helen Roper!
How sad is it that I can now relate to this woman?
When I got married, I thought that the "frustrated wife" was a myth. Some concoction of the male brain to give porn a 30 second story before getting to the nasty. But my friends, as the war over adequate sleep, housework and contraception rages in this house, this wife ain't gettin' any.
Granted, I still probably have sex more than most married people -- especially those who might have squeezed a baby out of their vaginas in the not-so-distant past. But the scales in this house have always been tipped unfavourably for the half of this marriage that would actually forgo sleep for sex. (Which is why we have a pocket coil mattress. So I can toss and turn desperately in my corner, while His Dogness sleeps uninterrupted.)
I don't even think the Dog realizes how curmudgeonly he's become. He fucking loves his sleep. God forbid he should not get his sleep. To be fair, I've been spending most of my days with yesterday's mascara highlighting the dark circles under my eyes, wearing the same yoga pants day in, day out and tops that provide easy access -- for breastfeeding. Maybe I need to try a bit harder.
I know what you're thinking. Throw on some lingerie. My husband is afraid of lingerie. He's afraid of its raw power and its blatant suggestiveness. He likes subtlety. And cuteness. And he really likes his sleep. He doesn't seem to get that our former daylight rendezvous are out of the question now that sleeping in means 7:30 am. The children's nap times rarely coincide and when they do it's too prime an opportunity to get other shit done. So as the Ray Charles song goes, the nighttime is the right time. Just not for the Dog.
I went out with some of my best gals last night, to celebrate the impending birth of Kate's son. It was a blast and I probably had way too much wine. No. I DID have way too much wine. Of course between two pregnancies and two bouts of long-term breastfeeding, too much wine now means 3 fucking glasses.
I get tarty when I drink. Some might use the term "easy". I reveal more than I should (Shocking, I know! What more could I possibly reveal? Oh dear.) and I get ridiculously loud and affectionate. Some might say "horny" or "annoying".
My husband picked me up on his way back from working the hockey game. We came home to a clean house with no kids. I was flirty and silly, but to no avail. It never works when I'm too obvious. So I headed to the opposite couch and watched SNL.
The husb promptly fell asleep at the end of SNL. I, however, was utterly restless. The alcohol and whoremones were coursing through my veins. And that's when I realized that I have become the frustrated housewife. I should just dye my hair red and determine if I'm wearing mumus from now on, or if I should take on the uniform of that other famous frustrated housewife.
The sad thing is if I looked like Katie Segal's other famous character (photo below) I probably would get my husband's attention.
When I got married, I thought that the "frustrated wife" was a myth. Some concoction of the male brain to give porn a 30 second story before getting to the nasty. But my friends, as the war over adequate sleep, housework and contraception rages in this house, this wife ain't gettin' any.
Granted, I still probably have sex more than most married people -- especially those who might have squeezed a baby out of their vaginas in the not-so-distant past. But the scales in this house have always been tipped unfavourably for the half of this marriage that would actually forgo sleep for sex. (Which is why we have a pocket coil mattress. So I can toss and turn desperately in my corner, while His Dogness sleeps uninterrupted.)
I don't even think the Dog realizes how curmudgeonly he's become. He fucking loves his sleep. God forbid he should not get his sleep. To be fair, I've been spending most of my days with yesterday's mascara highlighting the dark circles under my eyes, wearing the same yoga pants day in, day out and tops that provide easy access -- for breastfeeding. Maybe I need to try a bit harder.I know what you're thinking. Throw on some lingerie. My husband is afraid of lingerie. He's afraid of its raw power and its blatant suggestiveness. He likes subtlety. And cuteness. And he really likes his sleep. He doesn't seem to get that our former daylight rendezvous are out of the question now that sleeping in means 7:30 am. The children's nap times rarely coincide and when they do it's too prime an opportunity to get other shit done. So as the Ray Charles song goes, the nighttime is the right time. Just not for the Dog.
I went out with some of my best gals last night, to celebrate the impending birth of Kate's son. It was a blast and I probably had way too much wine. No. I DID have way too much wine. Of course between two pregnancies and two bouts of long-term breastfeeding, too much wine now means 3 fucking glasses.
I get tarty when I drink. Some might use the term "easy". I reveal more than I should (Shocking, I know! What more could I possibly reveal? Oh dear.) and I get ridiculously loud and affectionate. Some might say "horny" or "annoying".
My husband picked me up on his way back from working the hockey game. We came home to a clean house with no kids. I was flirty and silly, but to no avail. It never works when I'm too obvious. So I headed to the opposite couch and watched SNL.
The husb promptly fell asleep at the end of SNL. I, however, was utterly restless. The alcohol and whoremones were coursing through my veins. And that's when I realized that I have become the frustrated housewife. I should just dye my hair red and determine if I'm wearing mumus from now on, or if I should take on the uniform of that other famous frustrated housewife.
The sad thing is if I looked like Katie Segal's other famous character (photo below) I probably would get my husband's attention.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
A bit more lunatic ranting
Maybe it's this sinus headache, but I feel the need to bitch some more.
I once said that Love is cleaning the side of the toilet you never pee on. Then I said Love is pulling poop out of someone's asshole. Nowadays Love is cleaning feces out of Hot Wheels underpants and out of a toilet that my ass never even touches.
But my friends, this apparently is not considered housework.
When the troops are down, what suffers is my writing. My career. Which makes my blood boil at the unfairness. Because the Dog is walking around the house saying, "I can't wait until you go back to work and have some structure to your day." AND "I can't wait until your work is set to specific hours."
Meaning, "I can't wait until your free time is spent focusing on us instead of your laptop." AND "I can't wait until your free time is spent doing the dishes."
Oh, he's quite the equal partner in so many ways, but let's face it -- no matter how forward thinking your man is, no matter how much he helps out, there is a teeny part of him that fancies being Ward Cleaver. He wants to come home to the smell of pot roast. He wants to have slippers laid at his feet and a single malt poured when he gets in the door. He wants you to have a brain and interests too, just not on his time. He wants you to look at him, not the monitor, when you ask, "How was your day?" Worse! He actually wants you to give a shit.
All you are thinking when he walks in that door is, "Hey! Great you're here. I can't look at you right now because I may have 7.35 minutes before somebody REALLY needs me and I'd like to clear my brain by reading about toy recalls and Daniellynn's fortunes -- before I end up spanking someone. And don't get that look because I don't mean you."
Today I read something on ParentDish that said men who do more housework have more sex. I thought, hey, that's pretty cool. Granted, my husband does a LOT of housework -- the bulk of the tidying up, the dishes (a task we share), the garbage, the shoveling, and the floors maybe once every two weeks. The hilarious part is that he thinks I do NOTHING. Like Zero.
I don't need to get into how off that is. Because if you look at that list and you have even the most minimal knowledge of what it takes to run a house, you know. My house is not the cleanest house, but I'm not horribly embarrassed to have people over, so you know -- clearly I'm contributing.
So I mention this whole "do more housework, get more sex thing" and his response is, "But I already do ALL the housework, so I can't possibly do more. The roles are kinda reversed." I let him have this because I don't really feel like arguing and respond, "Well, if I did more housework would it make you actually want to have more sex with me? Because that can be arranged."
"But you don't WANT to do more housework. That's just not you." Oh, so now I have to WANT to do the housework? He wants service with a smile? Oh dear Lord, there is no winning.
All of this is coming to a head because I'm more than halfway through my maternity leave. Granted I've been trying to work through my mat leave, taking on great big writing projects. The issue with this is that I am also taking care of a... oh... what's that called again? Oh yes, a BABY! A bonafied eating machine who expects to be entertained and have her diaper changed at the slightest drop of moisture. So the only time I can actually work is when my children are sleeping or being supervised by someone else.
Which means when my husband is home, my face is buried in the laptop. So he wants me to go back to full-time employment and kind of actually give up all this side writing. He will not blatantly come out and say that. But this is the general impression I get. (see Ward Cleaver above) What he doesn't get is that full-time office work means I have less time in the day to get done what I have 24 hours a day to get done now. It also means I have to farm out much of that work to other women.
I'm truly conflicted. I know it would mean a major pay cut for me to try to work from home. I know I would need some level of childcare in order to make it work, regardless. I also know we're in some line of credit debt, that we need a new car and would like to have the basement renovated so the kids could have a playroom. (Our house is tight at about 850 sq feet, the basement reno would take us to almost 1200 sq feet.) I know that the US economy seems to be tanking and that we should basically get out of debt. I know that a good enough paycheque could cover the gaps and allow me to make the decision to work from home from a better place.
But the guilt is inescapable. I bore these children, I should find a way to take care of them myself, no? At least for the majority of the week. My husband seems to think getting out of the house will be good for me. But when I add up the sick days of two kids, the stress of getting them to two different places everyday -- while still trying to make it to the office by 8:30 am -- well it freaks me out. What will we be left with?
On the other hand, I love the office. I love getting dressed up and talking shop and shooting the shit by the water cooler. I definitely love the surfing time I get on my lunch hour. I love that my clothes are clean, that I wear heels and that no one needs my body for 8 hours. I love listening to the CBC on the drive in. I love the free books. I love my coworkers. I even have a really soft spot in my heart for my boss. That's a rare thing. I love the feeling I get when I contribute to projects and am valued. And I do love getting a decent paycheque without worrying when the next one is coming. How can I turn that down if they'd have me back?
So I find myself at the crossroads of whom I must be for my family and whom I'd like to be for myself, my sanity. There are pros and cons to both and each offers its own path to self-fulfillment. I still don't know where I stand and I'm certainly making my husband crazy debating this every day. (that and the "should we move to Scarborough or tough it out in the tight city" debate are plaguing us daily.)
I'm enjoying being off work, so I should really just focus on that for now and cross other bridges when I get to them. And maybe I need to itemize my tasks and the hours they take on a spreadsheet for the Dog so he'll shut up already. What do you think?
*****************
ETA: Fark, sorry, that was riduculously long and needed a proper edit before I hit publish. New rule should be Never Blog When Really P.O.ed.
I once said that Love is cleaning the side of the toilet you never pee on. Then I said Love is pulling poop out of someone's asshole. Nowadays Love is cleaning feces out of Hot Wheels underpants and out of a toilet that my ass never even touches.
But my friends, this apparently is not considered housework.
When the troops are down, what suffers is my writing. My career. Which makes my blood boil at the unfairness. Because the Dog is walking around the house saying, "I can't wait until you go back to work and have some structure to your day." AND "I can't wait until your work is set to specific hours."
Meaning, "I can't wait until your free time is spent focusing on us instead of your laptop." AND "I can't wait until your free time is spent doing the dishes."
Oh, he's quite the equal partner in so many ways, but let's face it -- no matter how forward thinking your man is, no matter how much he helps out, there is a teeny part of him that fancies being Ward Cleaver. He wants to come home to the smell of pot roast. He wants to have slippers laid at his feet and a single malt poured when he gets in the door. He wants you to have a brain and interests too, just not on his time. He wants you to look at him, not the monitor, when you ask, "How was your day?" Worse! He actually wants you to give a shit.
All you are thinking when he walks in that door is, "Hey! Great you're here. I can't look at you right now because I may have 7.35 minutes before somebody REALLY needs me and I'd like to clear my brain by reading about toy recalls and Daniellynn's fortunes -- before I end up spanking someone. And don't get that look because I don't mean you."
Today I read something on ParentDish that said men who do more housework have more sex. I thought, hey, that's pretty cool. Granted, my husband does a LOT of housework -- the bulk of the tidying up, the dishes (a task we share), the garbage, the shoveling, and the floors maybe once every two weeks. The hilarious part is that he thinks I do NOTHING. Like Zero.
I don't need to get into how off that is. Because if you look at that list and you have even the most minimal knowledge of what it takes to run a house, you know. My house is not the cleanest house, but I'm not horribly embarrassed to have people over, so you know -- clearly I'm contributing.
So I mention this whole "do more housework, get more sex thing" and his response is, "But I already do ALL the housework, so I can't possibly do more. The roles are kinda reversed." I let him have this because I don't really feel like arguing and respond, "Well, if I did more housework would it make you actually want to have more sex with me? Because that can be arranged."
"But you don't WANT to do more housework. That's just not you." Oh, so now I have to WANT to do the housework? He wants service with a smile? Oh dear Lord, there is no winning.
All of this is coming to a head because I'm more than halfway through my maternity leave. Granted I've been trying to work through my mat leave, taking on great big writing projects. The issue with this is that I am also taking care of a... oh... what's that called again? Oh yes, a BABY! A bonafied eating machine who expects to be entertained and have her diaper changed at the slightest drop of moisture. So the only time I can actually work is when my children are sleeping or being supervised by someone else.
Which means when my husband is home, my face is buried in the laptop. So he wants me to go back to full-time employment and kind of actually give up all this side writing. He will not blatantly come out and say that. But this is the general impression I get. (see Ward Cleaver above) What he doesn't get is that full-time office work means I have less time in the day to get done what I have 24 hours a day to get done now. It also means I have to farm out much of that work to other women.
I'm truly conflicted. I know it would mean a major pay cut for me to try to work from home. I know I would need some level of childcare in order to make it work, regardless. I also know we're in some line of credit debt, that we need a new car and would like to have the basement renovated so the kids could have a playroom. (Our house is tight at about 850 sq feet, the basement reno would take us to almost 1200 sq feet.) I know that the US economy seems to be tanking and that we should basically get out of debt. I know that a good enough paycheque could cover the gaps and allow me to make the decision to work from home from a better place.
But the guilt is inescapable. I bore these children, I should find a way to take care of them myself, no? At least for the majority of the week. My husband seems to think getting out of the house will be good for me. But when I add up the sick days of two kids, the stress of getting them to two different places everyday -- while still trying to make it to the office by 8:30 am -- well it freaks me out. What will we be left with?
On the other hand, I love the office. I love getting dressed up and talking shop and shooting the shit by the water cooler. I definitely love the surfing time I get on my lunch hour. I love that my clothes are clean, that I wear heels and that no one needs my body for 8 hours. I love listening to the CBC on the drive in. I love the free books. I love my coworkers. I even have a really soft spot in my heart for my boss. That's a rare thing. I love the feeling I get when I contribute to projects and am valued. And I do love getting a decent paycheque without worrying when the next one is coming. How can I turn that down if they'd have me back?
So I find myself at the crossroads of whom I must be for my family and whom I'd like to be for myself, my sanity. There are pros and cons to both and each offers its own path to self-fulfillment. I still don't know where I stand and I'm certainly making my husband crazy debating this every day. (that and the "should we move to Scarborough or tough it out in the tight city" debate are plaguing us daily.)
I'm enjoying being off work, so I should really just focus on that for now and cross other bridges when I get to them. And maybe I need to itemize my tasks and the hours they take on a spreadsheet for the Dog so he'll shut up already. What do you think?
*****************
ETA: Fark, sorry, that was riduculously long and needed a proper edit before I hit publish. New rule should be Never Blog When Really P.O.ed.
Friday, March 07, 2008
Where the %$^& have you been?
Well, if you have been stalking me on Facebook, you might know I've been sick. If you haven't, um, well, I've been sick. More importantly so have the damn kids and worse, His Dogness.
What is it about men and sickness? Why are they such sucks? My good friend Crown always warns me, "Be careful how you act when Nate gets sick. If you're not, you're going to raise a big suck like my mom did."
So how do you avoid your boy being a big suck when he's sick? It's already too late. He's the first one, the one I constantly worry about. I don't worry as much about Lucy, though her freaky no pooing thing still makes me furrow my brow and obsessively google vaccination side effects. But Nate, I stress over. "Are you OK? Do you have a fever? Are you going to throw up?"
My mother-in-law does not strike me as the type to have overly babied my husband. The thing is that the Dog never gets sick. So when he gets sick, he'll get the most evil awful thing that makes him have to completely shut down. Which, in turn, makes me begrudgingly make him hot lemon and honey and fetch him Tylenol. And I am not subtle with my begrudgingness. (My blog, it's a word if I say it is. Thought I'd remind everyone of that little rule.)
I get so downright angry and bitchy. Because it's not fair. When am I going to get to go to bed at 4:30 and sleep till the next day? Um, never. Because moms don't get sick days. They just don't. We have to be fucking Cinderellas first and get all our fucking dumbass chores done. Chores which somehow didn't disappear when they ratified the ERA. Because I still don't make enough money to pay some other woman to do that shit. (See, no matter what, you will end up enslaving some other lo-paid female with your husband's skiddy boxer briefs and that's not right either.)
We also have to do stuff like, I don't know, um breastfeed? Because the baby is sick too and heaven forbid I should feed her from a bottle and she get an ear infection. Oi vey the guilt. (I'm not Jewish, but some circumstances deserve an Oi Vey. Just thought I'd remind everyone of that rule we have here too.)
And little boys with runny noses need extra cuddles because they aren't feeling so good. And they scream, "NO Mommy! ITSNOT feed Loogoo time!" (More on that nickname to come) And nearly-35-year-old men can somehow sleep through all that chaos and leave you in the lurch because they are "sick". Cough. Cough. And somehow everyone still needs to be fed and have clean clothes and get put to bed. And I have to leave time to feel guilty that my son now recognizes the pizza guy. I am forced to wipe my nose and get on with it. Won't be taking it lying down for a while it seems.
So three babies for the past two weeks. I know that baby girl is fine. That she will one day tell us all to go screw ourselves for being so whiny -- particularly me. But for these boys it's too late. Let them curl up and watch Planet Earth together while I trudge to the basement to do laundry for the thousandth time.
Oooh, I'm such a badass. I do laundry when I'm mad. Because where the fuck else am I going to go? I can either go to the basement and do angry laundry, or go up to the bedroom and fold irate laundry.
I think this winter is killing me and I need a girls' trip to Vegas or something. What about you? Is your partner a suck when he/she is sick? Where do you go when you're pissed? Please tell me it's more exciting than my laundry room?
No Mommy! Don't show them how I eat my pizza like I have OCD.
Don't tell them I eat the toppings first, then the cheese, then scrape off the sauce and stuff it in my mouth with my fingers.
Then I may or may not eat the crust.
Oh the horror!
What is it about men and sickness? Why are they such sucks? My good friend Crown always warns me, "Be careful how you act when Nate gets sick. If you're not, you're going to raise a big suck like my mom did."
So how do you avoid your boy being a big suck when he's sick? It's already too late. He's the first one, the one I constantly worry about. I don't worry as much about Lucy, though her freaky no pooing thing still makes me furrow my brow and obsessively google vaccination side effects. But Nate, I stress over. "Are you OK? Do you have a fever? Are you going to throw up?"
My mother-in-law does not strike me as the type to have overly babied my husband. The thing is that the Dog never gets sick. So when he gets sick, he'll get the most evil awful thing that makes him have to completely shut down. Which, in turn, makes me begrudgingly make him hot lemon and honey and fetch him Tylenol. And I am not subtle with my begrudgingness. (My blog, it's a word if I say it is. Thought I'd remind everyone of that little rule.)
I get so downright angry and bitchy. Because it's not fair. When am I going to get to go to bed at 4:30 and sleep till the next day? Um, never. Because moms don't get sick days. They just don't. We have to be fucking Cinderellas first and get all our fucking dumbass chores done. Chores which somehow didn't disappear when they ratified the ERA. Because I still don't make enough money to pay some other woman to do that shit. (See, no matter what, you will end up enslaving some other lo-paid female with your husband's skiddy boxer briefs and that's not right either.)
We also have to do stuff like, I don't know, um breastfeed? Because the baby is sick too and heaven forbid I should feed her from a bottle and she get an ear infection. Oi vey the guilt. (I'm not Jewish, but some circumstances deserve an Oi Vey. Just thought I'd remind everyone of that rule we have here too.)
And little boys with runny noses need extra cuddles because they aren't feeling so good. And they scream, "NO Mommy! ITSNOT feed Loogoo time!" (More on that nickname to come) And nearly-35-year-old men can somehow sleep through all that chaos and leave you in the lurch because they are "sick". Cough. Cough. And somehow everyone still needs to be fed and have clean clothes and get put to bed. And I have to leave time to feel guilty that my son now recognizes the pizza guy. I am forced to wipe my nose and get on with it. Won't be taking it lying down for a while it seems.
So three babies for the past two weeks. I know that baby girl is fine. That she will one day tell us all to go screw ourselves for being so whiny -- particularly me. But for these boys it's too late. Let them curl up and watch Planet Earth together while I trudge to the basement to do laundry for the thousandth time.
Oooh, I'm such a badass. I do laundry when I'm mad. Because where the fuck else am I going to go? I can either go to the basement and do angry laundry, or go up to the bedroom and fold irate laundry.
I think this winter is killing me and I need a girls' trip to Vegas or something. What about you? Is your partner a suck when he/she is sick? Where do you go when you're pissed? Please tell me it's more exciting than my laundry room?
No Mommy! Don't show them how I eat my pizza like I have OCD.Don't tell them I eat the toppings first, then the cheese, then scrape off the sauce and stuff it in my mouth with my fingers.
Then I may or may not eat the crust.
Oh the horror!
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